


The Soldiering Life

by EzraTheBlue



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Trench Warfare, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzraTheBlue/pseuds/EzraTheBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As bombs fall on Paris and the Great War reaches a fever pitch, Jim volunteers for the Royal Army, and Hank is conscripted. Four young men face the perils of the Western Front, only able to depend on one another if they have any hope of survival. A World War I AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Are Each Our Own Devil

**Author's Note:**

> THIS STORY IS CROSS-POSTED ON FANFICTION.NET AND ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN. If you see it elsewhere, please note that I am not posting it and do not endorse it.
> 
> I've had this story slow-cooking in my head for a while, but indelicateink's "Create!" challenge motivated me to actually put the first chapter down and kick it into gear, and here we are!
> 
> The basic idea here was, "Hey, what if the Sanzo-ikkou were involved in World War I?" The story itself snowballed from there. No set update schedule, sad to say, but I will do my best not to leave you hanging too long.
> 
> Thanks also to LePetitErik, who has given me lots of great information and helped me with a great deal of the history!
> 
> Please note that this story takes place during World War I. Set your expectations accordingly.
> 
> The original characters of Saiyuki are not mine.

**1: We Are All Each Our Own Devil**

**SEINE-SAINT-DENIS, PARIS, 8 NOVEMBRE, 1916**

" _Merde_." Simon scowled at the envelope tucked in the mailbox outside of the Le Ciel et Terre print shop storefront, then turned the same disdainful attention to the dark windows. It was a dim morning, the sun a sickly yellow gleam behind a pall of clouds that made his blonde hair look burnished where it fell over his brow, but the windows were not meant to be dark even this early. Not a single man had shown up this gloomy morning, save for him, but then, he'd lost count of how many had been spirited away into the ominous fog of the encroaching Western Front. He should have known this would be the day he came to the print shop to find not a single press running, not a man loading the paper rolls, not even the file clerk. The final insult had arrived in the form of this now too-familiar letter. Every man had put one of these on his desk with a somber " _Je m'excuse._ " Now, this misty, dismal, chilly morning, he was opening his own.

He seated himself on the crumbling brick stoop to read, deeply read the text for the first time, until he heard his assistant calling down the narrow lane like a siren, his voice echoing off of the close buildings and drawing the scowling eyes of women on their morning errands and a chuckle from an old priest tottering down the road on his cane. "Simon! _Bonjour!_ " Simon grunted his annoyance as the boy skidded to a halt in front of him, his arms loaded with a baguette and a few parcels. Guillaume was an irresponsible boy, but he was good at getting up and about for the morning market visit as Simon, with his low blood pressure, dragged his feet through their little flat, smoking cigarettes and pulling clean trousers from the line with all the urgency of a sloth on opium. Guillaume just grinned in the face of Simon's ennui, bright-brown eyes sparking with light despite the gray morning. He stood a hand shorter than Simon, though his thick brown hair gave him a little extra height, but he had enough energy to shoot him towards the stars. "I've brought a morning snack, and some coffee beans--"

"And chocolate powder for yourself, I'm sure." Simon couldn't help but roll his eyes at Guillaume's enthusiasm, then tore a chunk of the bread off.

"You know me too well." Guillaume laughed. "I wouldn't have the temptation if either of us could cook worth a damn. You're lucky Phillipine is willing to give me the burned loaves for half price, or we'd be paupers."

"Ehh." Simon's lip curled, and his nostrils flared, but he took a good bite off of the bread. "A damn shame," he muttered through the crumb. It was at this that Guillaume saw past Simon and into the dark shop.

"Today's the day, is it? I thought it might have been." Guillaume put his parcels down, took a bite off of the loaf and plopped down onto the step beside Simon. "At least we don't have many orders, since it's just the two of us now."

"It's not. Guillaume." Simon thrust the letter out towards Guillaume, and he took it without a thought. His eyes first ran over the Source – Le Armee du Terre – then scanned the text.

" _Monsieur Constantin St. Simon, i_ _l est de mon devoir de vous informer..._ " Guillaume's face wrought, stricken, and he dropped the letter. "You've been conscripted."

"Are you surprised?" Simon put his bread down on the stone next to him and went into his vest pocket for his tobacco pouch and papers. "Damn near every other man in town has, just the same. If they weren't serving their three years or called back in, they signed up of their own accord. I only got deferment at all because of my father." Guillaume crossed himself, as Simon sighed. "And then, because someone had to keep his legacy alive. With this, though, the press must close."

"Nonsense, Constantin!" Guillaume put his hands on his hips, as Simon ignored his red-faced indignation in favor of the practiced motions of filling and rolling a cigarette. "We can hire some girls, like other places in town have—I'm sure Phillipine knows a few girls looking for jobs!--and I know near as much as you do about running the presses--"

"And not a damn thing about the books. Anyone I could hire for that has likely long since gone to the front or is incontinent, incompetent, mentally deficient, or otherwise unfit. Le Ciel et Terre closes today." He lit his cigarette, dragged, and exhaled into the morning mist. "You, too, will have to move on."

"What? But, Constantin-!"

"Guillaume." Simon shot him a cold glower to deepen the warning, his ice-blue eyes freezing Guillame in place.

"S-Simon." Guillaume fidgeted around his baguette. "Simon, this life is the only one I have known."

"There's nothing I can do about that." Simon dragged on his cigarette again, then blew a smoke ring. "I'll ring my great-aunt Constance. You remember her, the one who lives by the shore." He wrinkled his nose at the thought of her. "She'll put you in school. You can learn to do accounting. With luck, the war will end before you're old enough to serve, the building will stay standing, and perhaps then, you can take over the shop."

"Nonsense!" Guillaume stomped his foot again, face flushing bright red, and worked his fists at his side in a rising fury. "Why, if you go- if you go- if you go-! Then I'll simply go too!" He folded his arms, and Simon huffed and swatted Guillaume's arm.

"No tantrums! You're nearly a man, act like one!" Guillaume's cheeks went from red to purple, vacillating between the bottomless cliffs of crying and screaming, and Simon seized his shoulders. "Guillaume, you knew this could happen!"

"I didn't think—!" Guillaume hiccuped, and Simon groaned and captured his face in his hands.

"Fine! Fine." Guillaume's cheeks cooled under Simon's palms, and he heaved out a few hot breaths and calmed. "If you can get past the inspectors, then you can enlist with me. Hopefully, since we live together, they'll put us in the same regiment. But don't you dare go thinking it's going to be fun!"

"I know it won't be fun, it'll be hard, and the bombs will be so much closer than they were in February, but I'm not scared." Guillaume sagged against Simon, then eased back to fidget again. He slowly crouched to pick up his baguette. "What scares me is not being with you. You're better than a brother to me, Simon. If we're to visit Hell, we'll go together." Guillaume smiled and shrugged. "That's my choice. It's my life, you know?"

" _C'est la vie_ ," Simon agreed, then stubbed his cigarette on the stone and picked up his bread and conscription orders. "Come on, then. I've still got to call my aunt and let her know what's to become of her favorite nephew's press." He scrunched his face again and crumpled the notice, then stuffed it in his vest pocket. Guillaume tugged his jacket up his shoulders and tailed Simon's heels back down the row.

Even from their languid suburb, they could faintly hear the hum of planes swooping west of the city, and though neither acknowledged it aloud, they would soon roar louder. They both knew that more men were coming home in coffins or urns than on leave, and even more returned missing limbs. Simon dreaded facing the unimaginable horrors beyond the Seine, but worse, taking Guillaume meant he would have to face the harsh world long before his time. Even so, at least he was all but guaranteed to be at his side when the horrors of war, of this life, were laid plain before him.

Simon had lived twenty years and, over them, had gradually come to the conclusion that other people generally weren't worth his time. Still, life was much harder alone, especially the life of a soldier. Perhaps bringing him was for the best. Nobody, not even he, wanted to face this alone.

* * *

**FEATHERSTONE, WEST YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND, 9 NOVEMBER 1916**

Jim tossed all of his hair back with a roll of his neck, watching it catch the November sun as it fell back in place on his shoulders in his reflection. It was a unique shade of auburn red that stood out like October foliage, straight and pretty where it lay down his neck and back, even though he often had to bind it back at the card table to keep his peripheral vision open on his opponents and on the other players' hands. Still, he'd grown it and groomed it since his teenage years, and he was rather proud of his mane, even if it got him stares and sneers in the street.

He was going to miss it.

Jim spun around and joined the line into the recruitment office, behind a string of young men his age in the familiar dress of working class men donned by nearly every man in his neighborhood. He could see most of them had conscription letters, and wore a mix of emotions. The line stretched out the door and down the row of storefronts, awnings decorated with fading farewell banners and windows of "Now Hiring" signs. Between the snowballing conscription and the massive call to the coal mines, there was a growing shortage of young men, and Jim almost felt a little bad leaving it all behind. If ever he'd wanted to get out of gambling and go for honest work, now would be the time, but that wasn't what he wanted, no. He was happy playing the cards, but what he was doing was more important.

He got to the front of the line, and though the clerk squinted from under his cap and held his hand out for the conscription letter, Jim picked up a blank form. "Got a pen and ink, mate? Call it a birthday present."

The recruitment intake center was crowded with young men moving through on their physical exams, through to uniform fitting, then to receive their assignments. He hadn't worried about the physical exam. He was thin, but tight with muscle from roughhousing with the other lads, and hadn't had so much as a cough since he was still in primary school. As a bonus, Jim knew he had eyes like a hawk's, and he was eager to test his shot with something a little more accurate than a sling. He was eager for the uniform fitting, just because the gals admired a man in uniform and he always loved a compliment, but the room was packed full. Instead, he was shuffled along to get his hair cut.

The barber's office looked bigger thanks to the mirrors on the walls, many of which were decorated with photographs of soldiers and their families, as well as a few letters bearing the Army's emblem on the letterhead with medals hung beside them. There were a few empty seats, with haircutters hard at work trimming men to the army standard. Jim winced at the piles of damp hair on the floor, and gave his head one last shake, then took one of the empty seats at the end of the row in the vain hopes that the barbers would forget he was there and maybe just send him back to get his uniform. There was another man in the seat next to him, a posh-looking young man with a book open in his lap. He glanced up over the rim of his glasses briefly, granted Jim a flash of a smile, then tipped his nose back down into the pages. Jim took him in – he looked like a regular young man of means, with an emerald-green paisley vest over his suspenders, twill tan trousers, and a trendy flatcap that matched both, twill in the brim and body and an ornate jade-dyed silk rose pinned to the left side. Something about it looked familiar to Jim, and he examined the man's sharp profile until it clicked.

"Excuse me, mate, but-" The gentleman looked up with a bit of a flinch, and Jim put on an easygoing smile. "I'm bein' a bit forward, but did you go to primary school in this town?"

"Er..." The other man's jaw fell, eyes wide with curiosity, but he soon smiled to match Jim. "I did, yes. My sister and I both. I believe I remember you, to be completely honest, but not your name."

"It's the hair." Jim tossed it back again, then extended a hand. "James Shankhill. Jim, to friends."

The other took Jim's hand gingerly without releasing his page in his book. "Henry Collins." He slowly withdrew his hands, the smooth pads of his fingers dragging across Jim's palm. "Er, my sister says Hank."

"Oh! Kate Collins, the pretty lass what teaches the little ones at the school. I've seen her about." Jim grinned and tapped his forehead. Now that Jim thought, he could recall the two with ease. He'd see the pair of them in the schoolyard while he was in a bush ditching his ugly knickerbockers for play clothes, standing idle while he was getting ready to vault the fence, there like a pair of porcelain dolls: brown-haired, green eyed, their uniforms impeccable, often if not always holding hands. Henry had that very same rose, or at least a very similar rose, pinned to his hat or vest. "I never forget a pretty face, and, forgive me, but you look a lot alike."

Henry looked strangely pleased with this. "We're twins, it's not surprising." He cleared his throat and went on, "How has life treated you since you left school, then?"

"Eh, it goes as it does. I've been getting by." He scrunched his eyebrows up. "I'm not much of a workaday boy-"

"I don't recall you ever being such, no."

"Hey, I get by on the cards and dice. Nan's nurse gets paid, there's dinner on the table and oil in the lamp; I admit I'm shiftless, but it works out." Jim chuckled, then shrugged his shoulders. "Nah, I suppose I never quite knew what to do with myself, but when I heard about the war, I just got the itch to join up!" Henry looked politely unimpressed, albeit mildly interested.

"Really? What about it interested you?" He crossed one leg over the other, more proper by the second, and running his eyes over Jim slowly. Jim just relaxed into the creaking leather of the chair with a churlish little chuckle, letting Henry take in his shabby, patched pants and hand-me-down shirt. He wasn't sure what Henry was looking for, but it'd be nice if he found it.

"Well, I suppose I want to defend home and country and all, even if it means going elsewhere. And going elsewhere's not so bad, anyway, I've never left town for as long as I can remember, yeah?" Jim fidgeted, almost feeling Henry studying him and wondering what would get a good reaction out of him, if he had a good reaction in his stiff bones. "Plus, my brother joined straightaway, 'cos he thought he could save money to go to school. He wants to be a police detective, y'know?" Jim fished around in his pants pocket and found a crinkled photograph. "He sent me this a few weeks back. He and a load of his schoolmates joined up into a Pals Battalion. Machine Gun Corps in the Second Battalion." Henry looked, to see a grinning man with a face much like Jim's next to the bed of another man, with a pretty nurse checking the man's bandages. Jim let Henry hold onto it and added, "John's the big fellow on the left, and the other fella's one of his buddies, Cameron. John said he took a bullet to the arm, but it was healing up pretty nice. He says the nurse is a sweetie of his, says her name's Laura and they've corresponded as they've both had to move around. He wants to bring her home when the bloody Huns finally give."

"It seems it suits him." Henry handed the photograph back. "A pity you won't be able to join him. I believe we're being sent to the First Battalion."

"Eh." Jim shrugged and tucked the photograph in his shirt pocket. "Fine by me. I'd rather not outshine the big slacker." He rolled his shoulders into the chair, then gestured. "But his stipend is what pays the rent. I figure it'll be easier to take care of Nan with a steadier pay-cheque."

"Nan?"

"My father's mother," Jim explained, and curled a strand of his hair around his index finger. "Mum died in childbed, Dad died in the coal mine. Me and John have lived with Nan since I was in swaddling clothes. She's bed-bound now, but she's a tough old bird!" Jim laughed, though it sounded hollow to his own ears. "She still sits up enough to pull my ears and yank my hair if she hears about me actin' up in town. But she took care of me, so I s'pose I'll take care of her, see?"

"I see. I suppose wanting steady pay from something you think you'll like is entirely understandable." Henry ran his thumb along the outside of his book. "And... have you followed the war at all?"

"I've heard it's rotten in places, tough fighting and all, but I'm a tough man. I can handle it." Jim smirked and set his elbows back, holding himself in the barber's chair like a king on his throne, then cast a glance to Henry. "How 'bout you, mate? You don't look like the type to volunteer, I'm guessing you were conscripted."

Henry laughed, an airy "A-ha-ha," and pulled a letter from his vest. "I'd hoped I'd escaped it." He showed Jim his conscription letter, to an address in Leeds. "I was accepted at Leeds School of Medicine and was settling in for my first semester. I'd just gotten my flat unpacked when I received this."

"You were going to college?" Jim knit his eyebrows up, and Henry nodded.

"I'd hoped to be a doctor. I suppose it'll have to wait now." Henry put the letter away, and his chin dropped. "You'd think they'd rather me complete a year or two of training first, so that they could send another surgeon out rather than..." He hesitated, then gestured to himself. "Me."

"'Ey, now what's that mean?" Jim frowned, and jostled Henry's arm. Henry promptly pulled his arm in and away, and crossed one leg primly over the other.

"Simply put, I'm awfully nearsighted, so if I lose my glasses, I'm useless with a rifle. I'm not what one would call particularly strong, either." He patted the satchel at his side. "It was difficult enough for me to carry the few things I'll be allowed to take with me. I won't lie and say I didn't smuggle-" and here, he dropped his voice to a bare murmur- "a bit of contraband..." He slid the book on his lap into Jim's line of sight, and Jim leaned over to see it and snickered.

"Contraband, eh?" He hadn't actually read about what he should and shouldn't take, and wouldn't have thought books wouldn't be allowed. How many of those d'you have in that bag?"

"Fifteen." Henry's cheeks had turned rosy, and he pulled his book back into his lap, close to his breast like a treasure. "I brought ten of my favorites, and five I've never read before. But you see, this is just my point. I'm a student, and, being frank with myself, a mild little man." He heaved a sigh. "I would kick and scream 'til they let me out of it, but I doubt I'm strong enough for even that. So, forth I march, good little soldier Henry." He slumped, his hair drooping from the part in his bangs. Jim couldn't help but snort.

"Can't even get excited over defending Queen and country?"

"I like Queen and country well enough, thank you kindly, but I would prefer to serve of my own accord and volition. A doctor has ten times the value of a common soldier." Henry turned his gaze away completely and crossed his arms ever tighter. "Besides, we're not even defending our own country. Or do you not know just what you're being sent to fight for?"

Jim caught the edge of irritation Henry was giving off like a gleaming blade, but shrugged it off. "Of course. John told me all about it. That poor lady."

Henry turned in his chair, eyebrows raised. "Lady?"

"Yeah, and the prince." Jim drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair a few times. "Uh, Ferdinand, that was him. He and his wife got shot, and then Germany declared war on Russia, and then because of who our country is friends with, we had to jump in the fray too. But me, I felt so bad for the Prince's wife when I heard the story." He shook his head. "She didn't do nothin' wrong, just out for a drive with her husband, bang bang, she's dead, and there's two kids without a Mum or Dad all 'cos she married a Prince, and that's the saddest damn thing I've ever heard." Jim found himself less than able to meet Henry's face all of a sudden, and instead focused on the little piles of hair shifting in the current from the hall. "When I was younger, I thought we were fighting to avenge her for her kids, because the people who did that to her ought to get punished for it. Then I figure out it's also a good job, and, well, here I am, and wild horses couldn't stop me from taking up arms."

"I see." Henry's tone was unreadable – somewhere between disappointment and a sorrow, himself – and Jim dared to look at him again. His gaze seemed distant, and he tapped his chin. "You realize that if you pitied the Princess Sophie, you'd be fighting for the Germans, correct?"

Jim blinked back surprise, then chuckled. "Not a clue. Ah, well." He kicked his feet out and stretched his arms behind his head. "They'll get what's comin' to 'em, as it goes. Brought it on themselves. Whatever they did to piss us off was likely worth it, and even so, I got my own reasons for fighting. I make money, protect the country, and like I said before, I've never left this town. It might be nice. Still." He apprised Henry, toe to tip. He was thin and pale, with a wide mouth, and really, he looked a bit of a fop for a boy from a middle-class family. He didn't look like a soldier, and if he were even an ounce stronger, he likely would have kicked and screamed his way out of it. Yet here he sat. "It's a damn shame. You'd probably be better off in school."

"Ah, well." Henry laughed, though it was obviously false. "It is what it is."

"Maybe they'll take a second look at you and figure, he's not fighting material, and send you home right quick. You'll be back in school before you know it." Jim winked and jostled Henry's elbow with his a few times. Henry merely drew his elbows closer. "Or, er, maybe, the war will end before we get out of training. Yeah, that's the ticket! We win the war in the next few weeks, the bleedin' Huns drag their sorry arses back to Berlin, and you go back to school, and I... well, that just means John'll be home all the sooner, right?"

Henry considered this, his tongue pressed firmly in his cheek, then granted Jim a smile. "I suppose, but weren't you looking forward to defending Queen and country?"

"I'll still be in the forces, 'less they discharge me." Jim shrugged and sat back against the chair. "I'm sure they'll still have use of me."

Henry took this in, and Jim could nearly see him thinking. Then, he spoke, his tongue wrapping around each word as if it were made of sugar and glass: "You know you might die if you end up on the front lines."

"I ain't afraid." Jim hung his head a little, just as Henry straightened his back and stilled. Only then did Jim notice that the barber had come up behind Henry and was holding his head still. Henry slid the book up against his stomach, completely still, and only moved to snatch his hat off of his head. Jim held a hand out, and Henry glanced at it with a twitch of his eyes, then put his hat into it with a grateful smile. Henry pinned his lips shut in thought, and held still as his bangs were trimmed neat and even, the hang of his hair evened up. He didn't look all that different when the barber was done, but just as Jim made to compliment him, a haircutter seized his head.

"Oh, dear," Henry sighed from his seat. "It's such a shame. Your hair suits you as it is."

Jim didn't dare speak for fear that the scissors would come too close to his ears. He saw them in the mirror, silver and gleaming, in the barber's hands. The barber gathered his hair back, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. He felt the first big snip, and heard the bulk of his hair hit the floor.

"You'll make quite a soldier like that," Henry muttered. Jim felt a flush of embarrassment, but held still as the rest of his locks were trimmed away.

In minutes, Jim's hair was trim and neat, trimmed above the back of his neck, the front cut close and parted like Henry's had been, but Jim quickly combed it back with his fingers. Henry had remained in his chair, watching Jim with singular focus even as other new recruits moved around them.

"Are you at all concerned you'll die?"

"I guess it could happen." Jim pushed his hair back a few more times, but a few stubborn strands refused to stay in place. He met Henry's eyes long enough to give him a roguish grin and a wink. "But it'll be my own fault, won't it?"

Henry hummed, his gaze tipping down. "We are each our own Devil, and we make this world our hell."

Jim cocked his head. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ah, forgive me. It's a favorite quote of mine, Oscar Wilde said it." Henry touched his own lips. "It means... well, I suppose you understand."

Jim ran it back through his head, then chuckled. "Well, mate, if I start growing horns, I'll think of you." He heard someone clearing his throat behind him, and grimaced. "Suppose we have to move on." He hopped out of the chair, and shook his head to straighten his hair out of habit. The loss of the swing of his hair was palpable in that moment. Henry, too, rose to a stand, dusted the loose hair from his pant leg, and took up his satchel, looped around his thin wrist.

"We must, but it's been a pleasure. James?" Henry extended a hand.

"Jim."

"Jim. I hope the soldiering life suits you."

"Well, then. Hank." Jim smirked, cocking his head forward with a knowing wink. "I hope I never see your scrawny arse again. Get on back to school as soon as you can, yes?" He remembered something, then pressed Hank's hat into his extended hand. Hank took it, and Jim shook his hand through the exchange.

From there, they went their separate ways, Hank on to the medical exam, and Jim to get fitted in his Kitchener's Blues. For once, though, he found himself looking back on his forward-march. He didn't know what was ahead, but Hank had made him think.

Still, for Queen and country, for John, for the money, and for his own pride, he was off and away, set off into the tide of war. It would have been best if it hadn't caught Hank in the current, and he sincerely hoped that both he and Hank turned out to be right, in some way.

That he found the glory he sought, and that Hank saw none of it. That would have best suited both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conscription began in Great Britain in March 1916. All single men between the ages of 18 and 41 were liable to be called to join. In June 1916, married men became eligible. In 1918, the maximum age for conscription was raised to 51.
> 
> In France, military service was mandatory for most men for a period of three years, with very limited exceptions, in what could be interpreted as saber-rattling against the Kaiser's army. When war was declared, men who had completed their mandatory service were gradually called back, including men up through age 45.
> 
> "We are all each our own Devil, etc." – From the lesser known Wilde play "Duchess of Padua." Green roses were also a secret symbol of Wilde and his enthusiasts.
> 
> Kitchener's Blues – Because the khaki dye originally used to make British service dress Royal Army uniforms was a German product, and alternative products were difficult to come by, a highly-simplified version of the service dress uniform was produced for use in basic training, dyed blue instead. They were named Kitchener's Blues after the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, who had led the charge on a massive recruitment drive in late 1914, which made keeping up with the demand for new uniforms impossible in the first place.
> 
> The title of the story is a reference back to the song which initially inspired the story, "The Soldiering Life," by The Decemberists. As such, I have made several references to the band itself. For starters: Henry is the name of the lead singer's older son, and he is called Hank for short. Colin Meloy, lead singer and song writer, is referenced by Collins. Shankhill is a reference to a song title, "Shankhill Butchers." I'm sure I'll make a few more references somewhere along the line, and mention them as appropriate.
> 
> French translations:
> 
> Merde - "Shit."
> 
> Le Ciel et Terre - "Heaven and Earth"
> 
> Je m'excuse - "I'm sorry."
> 
> Le Armee du Terre - The Land Army, or the ground forces.
> 
> "il est de mon devoir de vous informer" = "It is my duty to inform you"
> 
> If I've missed anything significant, please let me know!
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


	2. Strained Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Hank arrive in France and become acquainted with their new allies and new duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay! Translations of French are at the end of the chapter. I also apologize, as I do not speak French and as such, the French dialogue may be a little rough.

**2: Strained Alliances**

Jim quickly learned he would be wrong. Through training exercises and firing practice, he saw Hank a few times, albeit at a distance. He blended in along with the rest of the trainees in their Kitchener's Blues, but when Jim did spot his boyish profile, he could be certain it was him. Hank seemed in step in sprints and some of the strength training, but he always seemed to attract the attention of his corporals and NCOs. Jim spotted him taking what was obviously a verbal lashing from across the stretch of muddied field the mayor had donated for their use. He kept meaning to search Hank out in the borrowed warehouse where all of the trainees were being stored over nights like so much cargo, but every night, he found himself dragging his own sorry heels to his cot, dropping onto the thin pack like four-stone of bricks, and falling asleep before his eyes had even shut such that the thought of seeking Hank out escaped him in the gaps between dreams.

It was satisfying, in a way, to be so exhausted from the day. He'd never cared for doing much before, preferring the life of the layabout or roustabout, sleeping in until Nan shouted for him, finding somewhere to nap in the afternoon, nipping into the candy shop for a fizzy drink, then finding where the town boys were playing cards and joining in. It was an easy life, but a boring one. By comparison, a day spent shooting through sandbags, running circles for than he could even guess by kilometers, strength training, tossing shot puts in place of grenades, and long lectures on tactics wore him out, body and mind alike. He knew well enough to listen when he was shouted at - used to that from home already, thanks - and found himself fairly good at following orders because he wasn't sure of what else to do with himself.

Shoot that. Done.

Run there. Gone and back.

Fifty push-ups. Yes, sir. Do it again. Sir, yes, sir.

It was easy, just a different kind of easy, the kind of easy that didn't leave him feeling listless at the end of the day. Just exhausted. He heard some of the other men quietly griping over their morning porridge that they hated being ordered around by officers out of academy who were half their age, or just that they couldn't keep up. Not Jim. Rough-and-ready bastard him, this was something he could do and wouldn't complain over. He got a good shot, he got strong, and he got ready to face old Fritz on the dirt in France.

It only came to him when they were ushered onto the train that was carrying them from the Leeds training grounds to the front that he wondered how Hank handled training, if he'd made it through alright. He was much smarter than Jim, of that Jim was certain, perhaps he wouldn't take as well to taking directions that he didn't fully understand, or from someone he didn't think as smart as him. No, Hank was smart enough to avoid insubordination, that was an easy path right to prison with the rest of the conscientious objectors. Hank would likely struggle with the rest. He had looked rather frail and delicate. If Jim was wheezing and exhausted at the end of what had to be a ten-kilometer run, then Hank might have collapsed halfway through. Their practice grenades might have proven too heavy, and his aim with mortars, rifles, or shotguns would likely have been hampered by his poor vision. Being discharged for being physically unfit would have been a blessing in disguise. Perhaps sleeping in the warehouse had given him a chill, and they would have had to send him to the hospital, and never to the front. All things considered, it would have been a good end for the man. Even so, Jim resolved to find out if Hank had made it to France as soon as he got there himself.

**ARRAS, FRANCE, 20 APRIL 1917**

This far from the front, the grasses were still green around the Union Jack's flagpole in the Sixth Division camp, though the ground around it was littered with khaki tents and crates as far as Jim could see as his company was ushered through and shown their quarters. Jim heard the sergeant say something about an operation in the next few weeks, but that training would continue here until then. Fine by Jim. The rest of the men went about finding their tents, but Jim broke off from them, his duffel still swung up around his shoulder, to poke his nose around.

There was little to see. He found the mess hall towards the east end of the camp, and could smell meat roasting for the evening meal. Past there looked like no-man's land, tromped down grasses and mud-stamped bootprints, the march back to the train stop. He about-faced and meandered through the rest of the camp, his heavy pack still slung close to his back. All the rows of tents looked just about the same, mostly just tarps held the ground with pegs and kept aloft with slim rods, enough for two men and little else. Easy to put themselves down, just as easy to pick back up. It was enough of a treat that he didn't have to set up his own tent tonight, but then, he'd never gotten to go camping as a boy, so this could be fun.

He wandered a little further, then spotted a small crowd of men in pale-blue jackets and trousers smoking cigarettes and talking quietly. As he approached to investigate, someone hooked a finger in his collar and jerked him around.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fais?" Jim was spun in place to face a man a little smaller than him, with yellow hair gathered under a Horizon blue cap and a scowl so deep in his pale face that it looked to have been carved there. Jim's jaw dropped, first because he'd been caught, and second, because he had no idea what the man had just said.

"Er- ah- what?"

The French soldier's scowl only seemed to deepen, and he curled his fingers around Jim's collar, his voice hard and gravelly as he demanded, "Pourquoi êtes-vous dans notre campement?"

"Camp!" Jim knew that word, and he gestured back to the khaki tents behind them and spoke slowly. "This is my camp. My tent is over there. Just looking around."

Jim could feel the other French soldiers' eyes on his back and face, muttering what was obviously discontent. The French soldier holding his collar glared at him, his bright-blue eyes darting to and fro across Jim's face, before growling nearly under his breath. "Vous ne parlez pas français. Pas du tout." He dug into his pocket with his free hand and put a cigarette to his lips. "Que dois-je attendu des britanniques idiots..."

Jim knew that last word too. "Hey, who're you callin' an idiot, mate?" He grabbed the French soldier's wrist and wrenched it away from his throat, then pushed him back. This knocked the cigarette from the soldier's hand, and Jim nearly felt the air snap taut as the soldier caught himself inhaled sharply.

"Peu... connard!" He launched himself up at him, fist raised, but Jim just managed to dodge his swing. He heard the rest of the French soldiers howl with laughter behind him, heard shouts of "Tommy" and "idiote," and pivoted back to face them.

"Say it to my face, you bastards!" Before he could do anything, the French soldier who'd accosted him kicked him in the shin, forcing him to hop around. "You want to go?! I'll fuckin' go!" Just as he wound up to fight back, a familiar voice rang out.

"Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi! James, stop!" Jim looked and saw a British soldier dashing down the row towards them, and grinned when he spotted a telltale pair of glasses shaded under his cap. Hank stumbled to a stop near them, doubling with his elbows on his knees and wheezing for air, before stammering out, "I... I beg your... Ceci... est... James. Je cher... cherchais pour lui." He finally caught his breath and granted the French soldier one of his signature smiles. "Puis-je le retrouver?" 

The French soldier scoffed, then grabbed Jim's arm and pushed him towards Hank. "Dieu merci, l'un de vous sait parler comme un homme intelligent."

"Ah, merci, merci beaucoup." Hank stepped past Jim, as Jim wondered at him. A medical student, plus he spoke French. If this fellow's brains got blown out, they'd be wasted. Hank just smiled and extended a hand. "Je suis Henry. Pardonnez-moi, mais pourquoi êtes-vous dans l'armée britannique?"

"Ugh!" The French soldier rolled his eyes, and began to chatter something off to Hank. The French soldiers had lost interest in them once the fight had been broken up, so all Jim could do was listen uselessly as all the noise went over his head like a flock of geese might. As Jim stood back, dumbfounded, he was faintly aware of someone coming up next to him, and looked to see a short soldier in the same blue uniform approaching in a jaunty shuffle. He stopped next to Jim, frowning at Hank and the first soldier's exchange. Jim took him in – the lad hardly came up to his shoulders, wasn't there some sort of requirement? – and waited for this one to try to punch him as well, but the younger soldier turned to face him after a moment.

"Eh, monsieur, parlez-vous français?"

Jim studied the boy's face – he looked awfully young in addition to being short, with baby fat in his cheeks and bright, boyish eyes – before groaning a little. "I'm guessing you're asking if I speak French. I don't."

"Ah!" The boy grinned. "That is fine! I speak some of the anglais, so I will translate!" Jim's jaw dropped, as he realized he was the only one in this conversation who did not speak French. The boy listened to the other two conversing, then nodded and looked to Jim. "He's just explaining to your friend why we're here."

"Yeah, that's a good question." Jim set his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow at the boy, and the boy sighed.

"Oui, it's unfortunate. Our company was supposed to be joining a division in Irles in Mars – er, Marjj?"

"You mean March?"

"March." The boy worked his mouth around the soft "ch" sound, frowning, then nodded resolutely and continued. "But we got broken off when some of the other side made a raid on the supplies we were moving. We had to run, and found safety with British soldiers, and we've been traveling with British companies to try to get back to the French army." He scrunched his nose. "Few of us speak much English, so it's been very hard."

"I see." Jim frowned, then held his hand out. "Well, I'm James. Jim, for short."

"Oh!" His eyebrows bounced up in surprise, and he seized onto Jim's hand with both of his and shook exuberantly. "Je suis Guillaume St. Pierre! It is Guillaume! But I have gotten a 'for-short,' too! The Tommies cannot say Guillaume, so I am just Guy now!"

Jim noticed that the first French soldier and Hank were watching their exchange now, Hank with a wry smile and the blonde soldier with his apparently stuck-in scowl. The blond soldier cleared his throat, and extended a hand to Hank. "Je suis Simon. Enchante."

"Également." Hank shook, then gestured. "Est-il ton frère?"

Guy actually laughed before Constantin could answer. "We are not brothers, non!"

"I hadn't actually thought as much, no, but do you know each other?"

"Bien-sur!" Guy grinned, rocking on his heels, and Jim noticed Hank's gaze flick to Guy's feet, then back to his face. "We were each taken home by a priest and raised together, but he told us we did not have to be brothers. Constantin was taken from a workhouse called Saint-Simon, and I was taken from one called Saint-Pierre. That is why our names are such!"

"Constantin?" Jim frowned, and Simon seized Hank's arm and squeezed to get his attention.

"Je préfère Simon."

Hank translated: "He would rather you call him Simon." Simon's nostrils flared, and Jim realized that he was still being glowered at as if Simon had just peeled him off the bottom of his shoe. Guy huffed and said something Jim didn't understand in low tones, and Simon growled something back. From the look in Hank's eyes, he understood, but when Jim raised an eyebrow at him, he shook his head.

After a quick conversation, Guy turned to Jim with a shrug. "It is a long story. Perhaps another time."

"Perhaps, yes," Hank answered, and Jim felt his hand on his shoulder. "We should be getting back. Er, James-"

"I told you, mate, Jim. C'mon, Hank, don't be so stiff!" Jim grinned and clapped Hank's arm back, but he heard Guy giggling to Simon.

"Qu'est-ce que 'Hank?' Comme un canard, 'Honk! Honk! Honk!'"

Hank's cheeks went all pink, and he turned to Guy and spoke in clipped, hard words. "C'est un surnom humiliant de mon enfance que mon ami utilise pour un terme d'affection." Guy clammed up all at once, Simon pinned his lips shut, and even Jim felt a tremor, because one didn't need to translate angry embarrassment. Hank took a deep breath, and sighed back into his usual lackadaisical tone and smile. "We'll see you, alright?"

Simon nodded, and Guy doffed his cap and half-bowed. "It was really nice to meet you!" Simon cuffed Guy across the head, then smoothed his hair back. Guy chattered some sort of admonishment or complaint to Simon, then continued calling farewells as Hank escorted Jim back towards the rest of the British camp.

"I'm lucky I found you," Hank confided to Jim as they got back towards where Jim had started his walkabout. "I heard that there'd been some strained relations between the French soldiers we were being forced to camp with. I believe we just met one of the two men in their regiment that knows more than one or two words in English."

"Lucky we got you, then, mate!" Jim grinned and nudged Hank in the side with his elbow. Hank, as before, stepped a bit to the side to avoid the jab. "I mean, look at you, speakin' French like you were born to it!"

A hint of pink stole across Hank's cheeks, and he fidgeted with his hands in front of his chest. "Erm... I very nearly was. When my parents were alive, we spent summers at the Brittany shore, and we spent a few winters in Paris."

"Is that so?" Jim whistled. "I had no idea you were well-off. What did your dad do?"

"Er..." The pink in Hank's face deepened to red, and he dawdled a little as they reached the mess hall. "You mentioned your father died in the coal mines, yes? My father also worked with the coal mines in Featherstone. He, er, owned an partnership interest in them."

"Oh." Jim had halted in place, and had to look Hank bottom to top again. He hadn't realized he was talking to someone _rich._ "Well, bloody hell, what are you doing here? Couldn't you, I don't know, buy your way out of it?"

"Certainly not, and it'd be immoral to try." Hank looked put out and marched on, his fists tight at his sides. Jim realized he was being left behind, and jogged a few steps to catch up. With his long legs, it didn't take much. "The wealthy and poor alike are being conscripted."

"I didn't mean to offend, mate; just, I would think your father would object."

"I'm not the only son of a wealthy man sent to the Front. Many were in military schools to become officers anyway, they were predestined for this sort of thing. As for my father, if he were alive, I doubt he'd care." Hank released his hands and folded his arms in front of him, and Jim frowned and tried to catch Hank's eyes.

"I didn't know. How'd he...?"

"Die? Shipwreck. He and Mother were going to visit America, but their ship sank on the way. Kate and I weren't invited, as we would have only been in the way. A blessing in disguise, as they say." Hank remained stiff and distant. Jim tucked his hands in his pockets and broke eye contact.

"I'm sorry. I seem to have right pissed you off. I only thought... I mean, it's a shame you're here and all. I'm happy to see you, though." He dared to look at Hank again and grinned, and Hank glanced at him, then reluctantly returned the smile.

"It's nice to see a friendly face, if nothing else. But you should know that nobody's immune." Hank sighed and hung his head. "I'm sorry, I am upset. It's not you. Just... the young man we just met."

"What, Guy?" Jim glanced back. He couldn't see Guy in the mass of men in blue anymore, but if he strained his ears, he could hear him laughing. "Whatever he said pissed you off, eh?"

"No." Hank halted, and motioned for Jim to come closer. "Did you notice how he walked?" Jim thought, and recalled that Guy rather shuffled. He pursed his lips, and Hank sighed and whispered, "He's got newspapers in his shoes. They don't make his size, because he's too small. There is no way on God's green Earth that Monsieur Guillaume is eighteen, let alone nineteen."

"Oh." Jim scratched his chin, eyes wide with wonder. "I thought he was small."

"He can't be more than sixteen. He's likely got another growth spurt ahead and everything. How could they?" Hank groaned miserably, then slumped. "How couldn't they? The French are desperate for soldiers. They probably made some sort of mistake when they summoned him, and he didn't bother to correct it. They didn't care that he doesn't look like a man, nor that their uniforms were too large for him, they just packed him up and shipped him off." He shook his hung head. "I hear they're even talking about raising the mandatory conscription registration cutoff age in Britain. Soon, men in their fifties will be dragged back into uniform. Nobody's immune from this war." Jim grimaced at the sorrow Hank evinced, and couldn't help but feel a little guilt over his own enthusiasm. Hank merely lifted his hands in a shrug, then trekked forward again. "Sorry. We would do best to keep away from the French soldiers, I suppose. For now, I should tell you that the only tent remaining in our row will belong to the two of us."

"Ah, okay." Jim made to follow him, puzzling through what he'd said, until he recalculated the last of it. "Wait, you mean we get to share?"

"Get to?"

"It's great! Camping with a friend, that'll be loads of fun!" Jim swung his arm around Hank's shoulder again, and Hank, for the first time, didn't pull away, but only frowned at Jim with confusion.

"You're not unhappy with this?"

"Are you?" Jim grinned, eager and giddy. "At least you know me. I got your back, mate. I'll keep my eyes out for you until I can get you back to medical school." He slapped Hank on the back, then jogged for the row. "C'mon, mate, let me drop my pack and maybe then we can get ourselves a spot of grub!" Hank frowned in his wake, but it was with a helpless quirk of smile.

Jim hoped that smile meant that Hank would at least tolerate the life of a soldier. He couldn't yet tell if it meant Hank liked him. He wanted it to.

* * *

Training continued, as Jim learned the ins and outs of his trench spade. Intimately. He and the rest of his regiment were marched out to the fields each morning long before the sun had even considered crossing the horizon and set at digging trenches. The sergeant divided them into groups and gave each set a section of dirt, and told them all to dig. Between the lot of them, they carved a jag in the ground and connected the paths. Jim's hands blistered, and the blisters broke and formed calluses all over his fingers. Hank would notice them during their afternoon meal, tut him and wrap the worst ones in bandages, then wrap his own. Hank's fingers bled from the rough work, and Jim would catch him tearing bits and pieces of his sandwich off as the crumbs stained red.

"Wouldn't do that," he advised once, and stomped on the dropped crumbs to drive them into the packed clay of the dirt. "Rats."

"Rats?" Hank frowned, and Jim chuckled.

"You ever seen the inside of a larder, mate? Or was the kitchen Miss Kate's wheelhouse?" He winked, and popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth. "Nan would shout me off if I ever left crumbs, said the rats would crawl out of the wall for 'em, and if I left 'em hungry, they'd come looking to gnaw on something else. We're outside, the rats ain't even got walls to crawl through now." Hank blanched, but frowned at his aching hands.

"I don't want to eat blood."

"Use my bandages, mate." Jim opened the First Aid kit on the side pocket of his tunic and offered his roll. "There's enough for the both of us. And even if we do run out, it's your own blood." Hank scrunched his face up like a particularly snooty cat, but accepted the gauze from Jim's palm.

"Doctor John Snow fights for the whole of his career to enforce common hygiene, and we throw it away for the sake of practicality in the face of danger."

Practicality seemed to be the name of the game, and that was all well and fine for Jim. Jim followed orders because they seemed practical, and did what he was told (dig this, move here, shoot in that direction). He was good at doing what he was told, to the letter. Hank, though, Hank fished around with logic and technicalities, and once dared to ask a superior officer why they were all digging at the same path rather than fanning out and working in sections, in hopes that they wouldn't tread on one another's clothes. Jim could only stand and stare as Hank got screamed at for insubordination. Jim probably could have told him better of it, because he knew that orders from someone like that simply weren't questioned. Hank shuffled away, dizzied and dismayed, until Jim clapped him on the shoulder.

"It's alright, mate, you tried."

"I recognize that warfare is changing daily, but I feel terribly that we're hardly keeping pace."

"Yeah? Then what're all them books we have to read every day?"

Hank pursed his lips, clearly wary of his own answer. "I suppose that's what the upper brass believe 'keeping pace' is."

As difficult as their days were, Jim actually started to pity the French soldiers. As Hank had said, only two among their band of twenty or so spoke or understood English, but the French corporal was not one of them. As such, general orders had to be given to one of the two English-speaking soldiers in the crew and translated to their corporal. Hank always frowned and stifled a sigh when Guy was called over to speak with the British sergeant, because Guy spoke English, but it was stiff. He sometimes had to double back and ask the sergeant to repeat, and the sergeant had no patience for it. Hank once tried to move closer to help translate, but Jim halted him.

"You'll embarrass the boy, mate." He watched as Guy cringed under the sergeant's barked directions, then lifted a finger to shyly ask him to repeat. "Damn, though." He jumped back as the sergeant screamed his directions, purple-faced and flecking Guy with wild spittle. "Here we're supposed to be allies."

Hank at least knew how to speak proper English to Guy, to face him and use simpler words, to repeat if he did not understand or draw diagrams in the dirt to aid him, which was why when Jim made to turn and get back to their tactics review, Hank held his arm and continued to watch the sergeant and Guy's exchange. When the sergeant put his foot down and pointed, and Guy offered a hurried salute and picked his heels up to run to the French contingent, Hank whistled. Guy turned at the sound, and Hank waved him over, and when he reached them, Hank motioned for him to crouch down. Hank then said something to him in very quiet French, and Guy gasped and nodded. "Merci, Monsieur Collins!"

"Henry." He threw a cautious look to Jim, then added, "Or Hank." Guy jogged away again, and Jim elbowed Hank in the side.

"What'd you tell him?"

"I repeated the orders for him. After all, we're on the same side." Hank donned a weary smile and finally turned to their books. "Goodness, if only someone could translate all this a bit easier."

Jim could agree with that. New orders and information, contingency plans and escape routes, all came down from above nearly daily, and the drilling and preparation was exhausting. However, at least all those little books could be read in groups, and Jim could look to the other recruits, all scratching their heads alongside him, to gripe about the mess.

"They really think any of this is practical?" He'd laugh, as Hank put his face in the text. The other soldiers laughed, too, and Jim got such a kick out of that.

That was the best: the Tommies were all great. Something about being in the same uniform, digging side by side, standing shoulder to shoulder with rifle in hand, it felt good and right. Jim was one of them, alright. He loved being part of the group. He couldn't remember all their names, just little pieces: Frank, with his skinny face and thick hands, whose daddy was a butcher; George, gap-toothed and freckled, who couldn't read unless he held the book upside down; Karl, whose Ma was a Swede (and his cousin Paul swore she looked more like a man than he did); Bruce and Clark and Maxwell, all conscripts a few months younger than him but just as eager, and so many more. He could share a drink with any of them, trading lights for their cigarettes and raising toasts after long days in the dirt.

He found, however, that he preferred Hank's quiet company. Hank seemed to avoid the others when they huddled, hunched over a mess hall bench with one of his "contraband" books concealed in his lap. Jim would spot him talking quietly to both Guy and Simon, since they both seemed at least a little distant from the rest of the French contingent. Guy seemed to always sit next to Hank, and Simon would never be too far from Guy. Jim would join them out of interest in Guy, since he was just as much fun as the Tommies and he found Guy and Hank to be better poker partners than anyone else, and Simon was as good a fourth as any. He didn't need to speak English to raise, call, or swear Jim out for marking his cards.

Sitting around the tables with cards out and a flask of rum was a good way to forget about the drudgery of the day, the endless digging, the mindless drilling. It was better than the creeping reality that each day spent on the field was a day closer to the front lines. Jim had rather hoped for a bit more action, and much more heroism, but all he was getting was muscles and blisters. He also could tell Hank was getting much the same, but rather than antsy, he only seemed dismayed at it all.

In fact, though Hank smiled during the day, he tolerated the shouting with stoicism, he did his work during the day to the best of his abilities, and he collapsed into the bunk next to Jim's at night and lay awake. For the first few nights, Jim fell asleep quickly, but not without seeing Hank laying flat on his back, staring at the apex of their tent with his eyes wide open. After a few days of the same routine, he asked him, "What's on your mind?"

Sometimes Hank would say, "It's nothing," and roll over. Jim took to asking him every night he caught him at it, and usually, Hank gave the same response. It was when he didn't that Jim, too, was kept from his sleep.

"I found out how old Guy is," he reported one night, his fingers curled in the lip of his sleeping pack, and Jim winced.

"Did you?" He'd seen the pair of them talking earlier, but hadn't come close enough to hear their conversation.

"He's sixteen. Just like I thought. He only turned sixteen a few weeks ago." Hank twiddled his fingers in the flannel. "He admitted it readily when he and I were speaking alone. However, he said he volunteered. He said he had to stay with Constantin, and he thought he'd be old enough to be in the army by the time they were sent to the front. He underestimated. He even said that it didn't matter, that he had to stay with Constantin and protect him."

"He's here for that grouchy bastard?" Jim rolled over to face Hank, tracing the knife-edge profile of his nose and jaw against the dim light through the canvas. "Why didn't Simon stop him? He's just a boy, even I don't want a kid to go under the gun."

"Keep your voice down." Hank didn't turn his head, his focus pinned through the top beam of their tent. Then, he added under his breath, "Nobody should go under the gun. Nobody deserves to put their lives at risk. What's the difference? He's only a few years younger than either of us."

Jim bit his lip, because he didn't have a retort for that. "Yeah, well, I want to be here."

"He does, as well." Hank turned his shoulder, his weary eyes squinting through the dark of their tiny pup tent to glare right into his eyes. "He said he had to. Constantin wouldn't be alright alone. He told me so with such deep conviction." Hank squeezed his eyes shut, his eyelashes dark against his dust-roughened cheeks. "You have your reasons, too, don't you?" That sounded like a challenge. Jim swallowed, but nodded. Then, Hank asked, his voice a hush like a rat moving through reeds, "Are you scared yet?"

Jim didn't answer. How was he supposed to answer? Hank, of course, quietly elaborated, "You've read the same books I have. Teaching us how we deal with tank fire, with mustard gas, how to counter a cavalry flank, the procedure for the night guard against German raids, they're all merely teaching you how not to die. Do you know how easily we could die?" Jim tried to shut his eyes and shut it out, but Hank, wide-eyed again, rattled it off in a rush, "We could be shot and bleed out, and that would nearly be merciful. Mustard gas, you inhale that and it starts dissolving your lungs like acid. Minefields, one wrong step and you're in a thousand pieces everywhere. If you're struck by shrapnel, you could get infected and succumb to fever, and there's trench fever and those rats you pointed out carry all sorts of diseases..." Jim was about to tell Hank off for trying to frighten him, until his voice cracked, and he spoke in barely audible, wobbly tones: "You could tire of the sounds of death and horrors around you and end yourself. You could eat your pistol and pull the trigger, you could eat poison, you could throw yourself on a grenade, or take your field knife and run it across the veins in your arm, or--"

"Mate." Jim flung a hand out across the little tent and seized Hank's arm. "Can you do us a favor and not do that?" Hank buttoned his lip, and Jim rolled onto his elbow to glower down at him. "If you would."

"I... I wasn't being serious."

"That's not a joke."

"It wasn't a joke, either." Hank turned his face towards the pillow. "You thought I was being serious? Why were you so worried?"

"I'll tell ya why," Jim snarled back. "If you off yourself, I'm gonna have to take that little fucking shovel and dig another goddamned hole, and I'm already exhausted and it's gonna be twice as hard without you to help me. Now, you and me, we're gonna stick together, you understand?"

To Jim's surprise, Hank's mouth split into a weary smile that he could make out even in the dark. "I understand. I'm very sorry. I've kept you up late again, too; how dreadful." Hank sighed and gave his arm a gentle shake, and Jim let go, allowing Hank to roll over. "Good night. Tomorrow's another day, is it not?"

"Mm." Jim rolled back over as Hank tumbled into sleep, his knees curling up towards his forehead. Jim could still hear his voice, reminding him of everything that could happen to him, to them. How Guy, so bright and pleasant, could die in an instant. Any of them, all of them.

But he had his reasons to be here, too. Glory, freedom, the pride of defending home and of serving alongside so many good men, he could summon a dozen good reasons to be where he was. Even if it meant risking death. He'd known that was a risk the day he'd enlisted. Hank could only be reminding him in a desperate attempt to dissuade him, or perhaps that was truly considering any other option than going forward.

Queasy but steadfast, Jim shut his eyes and prepared to face the next day, and the next, until the day he finally marched onwards to glory. Frenchmen, strange friends, and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Simon: "Qu'est-ce que tu fais?" - "What are you doing?"
> 
> "Pourquoi êtes-vous dans notre campement?" - "Why are you in our camp?"
> 
> "Vous ne parlez pas français. Pas du tout. Que dois-je attendu des britanniques idiots..." - "You don't speak French. Not at all. What else should I have expected from these British idiots..."
> 
> "Peu... connard!" - "Little... asshole!"
> 
> Hank: "Ceci est James. Je cher... cherchais pour lui. Puis-je le retrouver?" - "This is James. I've been look... looking for him. May I have him back?"
> 
> Simon: "Dieu merci, l'un de vous sait parler comme un homme intelligent." - "Thank God, someone who speaks like he's got a brain."
> 
> Hank: "Ah, merci, merci beaucoup. Je suis Henry. Pardonnez-moi, mais pourquoi êtes-vous dans l'armée britannique?" - "Ah, thank you, thank you very much. I'm Henry. Pardon me, but why are you with the British army?"
> 
> Guy: "Eh, monsieur, parlez-vous français?" - "Uh, Mister, do you speak French?"
> 
> Simon: "Je suis Simon. Enchante." - "I'm Simon. It's a pleasure."
> 
> Hank: "Également. Est-il ton frère?" - "The same. Is this your brother?"
> 
> Guy: "Qu'est-ce que 'Hank?' Comme un canard, 'Honk! Honk! Honk!'" - "What's this 'Hank?' Like a duck, Honk! Honk! Honk!"
> 
> Hank: "C'est un surnom humiliant de mon enfance que mon ami utilise pour un terme d'affection." - "It's an embarrassing nickname from my childhood that my friend is using as a term of endearment."
> 
> You may be wondering why I didn't simply translate the text in the story. I left it in so that you, my dear readers, can have the full Jim experience. I may translate the French dialogue in the text depending on the scene (i.e., if Jim is not the viewpoint character, or if it's more important that you understand what they're saying than sympathizing with Jim).
> 
> Poor Gojyo is going to need a lot of sympathy by the time all is said and done.
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


	3. Nobody Forgets Their First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim, Hank, Guy, and Simon face the line of fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are at the bottom of the chapter. Please use F3 to retype the dialogue as needed!

**SOUTH OF AVION, FRANCE, 25 JUNE, 1917**

"It's a flanking operation," their corporal, Bradley, said, as he spread out a map of the Lens area. Jim, Hank, and the other Tommies in their regiment were gathered around a lantern and table set up in the center of their new encampment. They'd marched north three days to get to this new field, and Jim was learning the routine of putting up and tearing down camps like clockwork now. It wasn't easy when his legs were worn out like ungreased pistons, hot and heavy and so reluctant to move, but he'd been even more irked to be woken long before reveille to join the huddle. Staring at the map over a smaller man's shoulder, his annoyance mingled with confusion. It looked like nothing but lines and arrows to him. He could see lines drawn where the Allied territory had been pushed back, and he'd marched in file past a field marked with a labyrinth of trenches and festering graves. He imagined he was headed for more of the same, and the corporal only went on to confirm it.

"Our division will be carving a path up towards Avion along the Souchez. There are Canadian forces already in place. We ain't gonna have another Bullecourt here, we're well-supported." The corporal paused to pull on his cigarette, exhaling smoke when he spoke again, "The trick will be pushing for ground. Jerry's pretty well entrenched through here." The corporal traced a line along one of the dashes on the map. "Machine gun embankments - the surveyor corps' confirmed six on the line we're moving towards - and we've seen a lot of gas used down towards the main operation, so there's no reason to think they won't use it here. Be wary for it. The road our regiment's going to be taking is narrow and uneven, so we may not get tank support, but neither will they, 'less the damn Krauts have figured a way to get tank treads up and over meter-high rocks." Corporal Bradley looked from eye to eye, as a few of the soldiers muttered and chuckled to one another, but the corporal waited for Hank to give him eye contact. "I haven't been in touch with the men we're relieving. However, there have been reports of light bombs from above, and confirmed shelling. They got mortars out the arse. Mind your overhead, yeah? If you see 'em, hear 'em, smell 'em, move. Last thing you need's a faceful of shrapnel."

The briefing went on, but Jim found his mind far away - already at the front, already poised at the trenches, his rifle propped on his shoulder and blazing bullets at the Germans in their ugly gray uniforms, already bolting up over the walls and charging forward like a train towards the station. He was so excited to finally be seeing some action that he hardly heard the rest of the briefing, even when Bradley turned to Hank directly. "Well, Mister Collins, it's my understanding you par-lay-vouz a little bit of the Fran-say, so I'm gonna ask you to tell the French contingent that they're going to need to get into Avion. Our scouts have found a weak point in the enemy line, and we'll be sending the Franks there in the dead of night while we're moving onto our line. There's an outpost in Avion that's going to get the French back to their proper corps, and getting them past enemy lines here is going to be their best bet for getting out of our hair." He passed Hank the map. "Do us a favor and show them the green line where the frogs get to cross the river."

Hank accepted the map, and Jim heard him exhaling through his nose in a suppressed sigh. With that, the company was dismissed, and Hank about-faced for the French side of the camp. Jim swiftly spun and followed him jogging to catch up then lagging along at his heels. "It'll be a little odd without the Franks around, eh?"

"I suppose, yes." Hank kept his eyes forward and his hands folded behind his back, but Jim caught a glimpse of his conflicted, difficult expression and caught his forearm.

"Hey, mate, lighten up, will you? Tomorrow's an exciting day. We get to face ol' Fritz head on for ourselves for the first time." He could still hear some of the other Tommies bragging to each other about taking a Kraut helmet off of the field for a souvenir when all was said and done, boasting just how many they were going to shoot, all just as excited as him. He grinned, but Hank failed to return it, his lips weakly twitching in distant sympathy. "Plus, if the Frenchies do get back with their regiment, you-know-who just might find himself in a safer place."

That did bring a smile to Hank's face, and Jim felt a little relief wash up into his throat at the sight. He knew that Hank fretted over Guy many days, and had started to see his little kindnesses towards the boy - repeating orders in both French and English out of their officer's earshot, sitting with him at meals and during their free time, laughing at his goofy jokes and scamp-like behavior - as the actions of a guardian as much as that of a fellow soldier. Perhaps a conversation with him would put some spring in his step.

Guy and Simon were hanging on the outskirts of the French camp, Simon smoking and looking over a newspaper, and Guy kneeling by a crate with pen and paper. Hank quickly greeted the two of them in French, then crossed past them towards the leader of their regiment, leaving Jim behind. Jim moved to follow him, then flinched back at a sharp look from Simon. Simon glanced over to Guy, and muttered, "Demandez ce qu'il veut."

"Good morning, Jim!" Guy folded his paper over once, then passed it to Simon. "Elle voudrait si vous voulez écrire, aussi." Simon grunted dismissively but snatched the paper away, as Guy rolled up to a stand. "What can I do for you?"

"Waiting for Hank. Seems they're trying to pass you back to where you all are supposed to be."

"Oh, really?" Guy scratched his chin and crossed his arms, only drawing attention to his too-long sleeves. "I suppose it is good that we get back to our proper army, and it will be nice not to be screamed at in English." He grinned at Jim. "But you and Hank have been nice. I will miss the Crown and Anchor, and the poker."

"Well, perhaps you'll meet some nice Americans. I hear they're even worse at poker than you." Jim snickered and set his hands in the back pockets of his uniform. "So, writing home?" He squinted at the letter that Simon had now put pen to, but Simon jerked it out of sight so that he couldn't see. "You have a sister, a cousin, or..."

"Oh!" Guy clapped a hand to his mouth as he thought. "Er... it is... Tante! Grand-tante! Ah..." He visibly struggled. "It is as one's father's sister, you see, but..."

"Oh, you have an aunt." Jim suddenly grinned, lewdness leaking into his tones. "A French lady, is she?" Guy turned a little pink, and Simon snapped his chin up.

"S'il dit quelque chose de dégoûtant Tante Constance, lui dire quel âge elle a."

"She is," Guy agreed warily, eyeing Jim with suspicion. "She is Pere St. Simon's aunt, and she is..." Guy briefly numbered on his fingers, then scrunched his nose and shrugged. "She is much older than us."

"Ah? Well, that's all as well. Not as if she's here." Jim shrugged, but frowned at Simon. Simon hadn't looked up again, so Jim could safely sneer at him. "Y'know, I'd been hoping to meet a few French women over here." He propped himself against the crate next to Guy, and smirked. "I hear they can French a man like a bloody leech."

"Fr... French?"

"You know." Jim jostled Guy's elbow a little, as he obviously searched for words. "Fluters. Gals who know how to suck-off."

"Fluters? Suck off..." Guy, wide-eyed, rolled the words around his mouth, as he clearly knew the meanings of both but was confused about their conjunction. "I do not know any women who play flute, but I would have to ask. I know Tante only plays piano, and Phillipine nothing at all. And, er, what are they sucking off of? And what is it they suck off of it? Phillipine has such good manners, I cannot imagine her sucking on anything! Tante, well... what are they sucking on?"

Jim snickered, because oh, _this_ could be fun. "Spigots, Guy. They suck spigots."

Guy looked utterly perplexed, so Jim went on, gesturing, "Axes, too. Nightsticks, for that matter." He made a groping gesture with his right hand and licked his lips. "If you're lucky, they'll give a little rub to your marbles, and-"

Jim had missed the apoplectic expression on Simon's face at his lewd hand motions, and as such had no chance to dodge the book thrown at his head. "Il parle de fellation, idiote!"

Guy sucked in air through his nose, then shouted back, "Elle est de cinquante-six!"

Jim peeled the book from his face and was about to rear up on Simon, until he heard a familiar titter from over his shoulder, and whirled around to see Hank behind them, his hands clapped over his mouth. He cleared his throat and adjusted his hat, then gently dusted Jim's head off. "Goodness, Jim, I left for five minutes and you're trying to teach him foul language." He turned to Simon. "Il n'a pas dit quoi que ce soit trop offensive?"

Simon scoffed, but conceded, "On pourrait penser qu'il était l'enfant entre les deux." Or it sounded like he was conceding something. "Il peut l'avoir traumatisé en pensant à notre tante au lit avec son majordome."

"Oh, my." Hank giggled, and Simon grunted, as his interjection required no translation, and Jim felt Hank's fingers drive in around his scalp. "I'll ask him to be more polite with the young man."

"Christ, leave it!" Jim jostled Hank's wrist out of the way, then straightened his tunic. "I was joshing him, is all." Hank chuckled, but Guy kept his arms crossed, and Simon's nostrils flared again, as he folded the letter over and took out his metal cigarette case, looking oddly ominous under his scowl.

"C'est aujourd'hui le jour. Avez-vous envoyé une lettre à votre famille?"

Hank, of course, answered first. "Non. Je l'ai écrit à ma sœur la semaine dernière. Cependant, je ne veux pas l'inquiéter." He turned to Jim. "Have you written to your brother? Ton frère? John, was he?"

"Ah, no." Jim scratched his chin uncomfortably, feeling just a little hot under the collar despite the chilly morning. "I sent him a letter when I got here, but, er, he does move around too." Hank immediately turned to Simon to translate, but Guy tugged his arm.

"Is he in the army too?"

"That he is." Jim chuckled. "Machine gunner." Guy looked delighted.

"The machine guns are really something, non?"

"Damn right they are!"

"Jim, ta grand-mère? Your grandmother?" Hank had turned back to him expectantly, and the heat Jim had been feeling dissolved. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

"She can hardly read on her own anymore. I wouldn't want to bother her nurse when I ain't got anything to say." He chuckled, feeling a bit lame at the thought. "Perhaps I ought to. She'll likely be curious. I figured I'd write John after, at that, tell him all about my first day on the field." He grinned, but it felt as bleak as the cold morning light. Guy seemed to ponder Jim's words carefully.

"I hope you get the chance. I'm sure they'll love to hear from you." At that, his face fell, and he snatched the letter out from Simon's hand with a surprisingly sharp motion and turned to leave, but Hank caught his arm.

"Would you kindly include fond wishes from Jim and myself to your aunt in your next letter home?"

Jim caught on. "Yeah, do. Sure she's a lovely bird if she's of any relation to you. I'll be sure to tell my Nan and John about you and Simon." He squeezed Guy's shoulder, and Guy pushed a weak, thin smile into place, then jogged off. Hank sighed to see him go, and Jim winced in his wake.

Between the somber expression woven into Simon's brow and the strange bleakness apparent in Hank's vacant smile, the morning had gone damp and clammy all at once. Simon then looked meaningfully at Hank, and spoke sotto voce, _"I am not particularly nervous. If I die, I die. But Guillaume, he was frightened when the horses started to scream before. I think he does not want to die."_ His ironed-in scowl dissolved for a moment, and Jim had the brief epiphany that he had very soft features, when he wasn't wearing such an ugly look.

" _I think,"_ Hank replied, as Jim stood back, feeling grim and wishing he could understand their conversation, and as Simon languidly drew out and lit up another cigarette and brought his eyebrows back to a peak, _"He is concerned for the both of you."_

"Tch!" Simon blew a smoke ring. _"He knows how I feel. Damned brat."_ He waved them off, still smoking his cigarette. _"You have not seen the front yet. I have only been behind the lines myself, never so close, but it is what it is. Try not to piss yourselves."_ He sauntered off, and Hank pursed his lips, his arms coming to fold in front of his chest. Jim scowled at his narrow back.

"What'd he say?"

"He wished us good luck." Hank pivoted, his boot leaving a skid of a print in the dirt, and shrugged. "I imagine we'll need it." He started to trudge back, but Jim looked back again.

The ground was soft, ripe to dig in. It looked like this might have been farmland at some point, rich and fertile. He knew he was about to dig into new rows, and this land might never be good as farmland again.

It was a small sacrifice.

* * *

When twilight fell, the ground was wet, sopping in the damp of the flood plains. Jim recalled from the training manuals that the wet ground would make digging their trench easy, but they wouldn't be able to go as deep in without risking flooding out the hole. He knew that. Despite all of his training, though, actually peering over the embankment at the field was something else entirely. He saw the German trenches in the distance, their lines as thick and impenetrable as brick walls, and he seemed to forget everything he'd learned in the last few months. His Lee-Enfield rifle, freshly cleaned this morning, was heavy on his shoulder, his Smith & Wesson .38 sidearm dense at his hip. Hank was at his shoulder, and he could hear one of the other guys (Clark, likely) muttering a Hail Mary. Corporal Bradley, however, squinted across the twilit distance and motioned to the men.

"Cover's limited. The men who've come before have cleared it out pretty well. Keep your head on your shoulders and your arse low, and charge." There was a groan in the distance, and Jim and some of the other men lifted their heads. A line of British tanks was moving across the horizon, big against the moon, their shadows long against the line of no-man's land. Jim had seen tanks before. He'd seen them move, rumbling across the field as they were put through their paces, as their drivers trained, even cheered on their races. Watching them traverse the horizon like black swans on a blacker pond was a dark reflection of those joyous moments. They were so huge, even with a few kilometer's distance. He was so small.

"This's the meat grinder, mates," Corporal Bradley muttered, and Jim swallowed hard and faced the field. In all their books, in all the training, this was what the officers had warned them about most. Moving from the back to the front was the riskiest thing they could do, but here they were. No going back without being executed as a coward. The only thing he could do was forward-march. "Stand-to, men," Bradley growled, and every man brought his rifle to his chest.

Their goal was in sight. It wasn't more than a kilometer off. Not terribly far from their cover. All they had to do was survive the exposure. Jim glanced around, and could see the French soldiers, gathered in a mass of pale blue visible even in the moonlight, and grimaced. He could just make out the smaller shadow of Guy against the rest. His stomach flipped in place, but he set his sights forward.

"Move, boys!"

Sir, yes, sir.

Jim sped down the bank in formation with the others, moving through the lowlands in the midst of the pack. The night was silent but for their boots tromping across the packed dirt, Hank's heavy breathing at his side, the clank and rustle of their equipment, and the faint whistle of the wind. The bunker seemed so far, and only getting further. He tried to keep his face forward, but his eyes kept drifting towards the horizon, over no-man's land, and at the shifting shadows behind enemy lines. Those scant motions, what little he could make out, sent thrills down his legs, commanding him to stop, to drop, to take cover, but he couldn't. There was no cover.

The silence of the night was shattered all at once by the roar of a machine gun, and Jim heard cries and wails behind him. If men were falling, he hadn't seen them, but he whipped his neck around. Hank was still with him, but Jim could see his gaze on the horizon too. Then, Hank ducked and sped ahead, tugging Jim's arm and forcing him to stumble along at his side. Jim managed to make his way back into a run, jostling his rifle back into place, as he saw what Hank had spotted – a low hill. Hank led him down behind it, then mounted his rifle against the dirt.

"Stay calm, catch your breath." Hank squinted across the distance, but even Jim could judge there was too much distance between them and the enemy line for any of the shot to hit. "If we stick towards the back of the pack and keep low, we're less likely to end up in the spread. I don't see another machine gun turret until we're closer, so once we clear it, they're likely to start lobbing shells. You'll have more warning on those. Let's move, eyes forward." He shouldered his rifle again, then sprinted off to rejoin the pack. Jim followed, keeping close at his heels with his long legs to catch him up.

Good God, how could Hank think that quickly when facing down bullets?

He looked back and saw three bodies lying behind them, their shadows long against the black dirt. He spun again, feeling stupider than Lot's wife must have in making the same mistake. Hank was back with the rest, and Jim caught up just as quickly. The corporal, leading the charge, motioned with a wave of his arm to one of the support lines. "Circle up, fellows!" The men remaining gathered there, around him, and Jim could feel the corporal's gaze glance off and over him – he was counting heads. "Split into two groups. If we scatter they won't know where to aim." There were a few nods. Jim could smell stomach acid and the gruel from their dinner off of someone to his left, and fire and brimstone in the air. He found Hank on his right, and Hank nodded. Jim swallowed his fear, and when silence fell around them again, the company broke off into small packs, the forty-odd of them left scattering in twos and threes.

Jim heard the distant roar of a biplane starting. Hank didn't blink, didn't stop running, but Jim could see his jaw trembling under his helmet. Airplanes meant shells, and Jim knew they wouldn't get air support. Nobody here could fend a plane off – no machine guns around, the corps was on a whole different field – and even his tin helmet wouldn't protect him from something that big, that heavy, falling that fast. Shit, who knew they would dare get a plane off the ground at night?

"Shit." Jim gripped his rifle a little tighter. Hank hadn't slowed, though, so he wouldn't either. As soon as they hit another hill, Hank yanked him to the ground and propped his rifle up on the mound of dirt.

"Jim, look for the planes. See where they're coming from, your vision's sharper than mine."

Jim lay flat on his belly next to Hank, his eyes just above the crest of the hill, and tipped his helmet from his face. The skies were clear. "Can't see shit."

"They may be too far away yet." Hank shouldered his rifle again. "Wait a moment; the others are too far behind us."

Jim was about to brook argument, until he saw a flash of scattering shadows across the field and a ruckus of gibberish loud enough to break through the rolling gunfire. The French contingent, moving far north of them, beset by dark silhouettes. There was shouting. There was the smell of gunpowder. Jim's stomach twisted. "Oh, Christ, they were caught."

The action of the clash was indistinct, as they shouted at one another, and brawled their way through one another's lines. No, it was impossible. There were just too few frogs, and too many Fritzes. Jim swore and pointed his rifle at the crowd of German soldiers, but Hank tugged his arm.

"No, they're too far, and they keep moving, you'll be lucky to strike dirt from here."

"We can't just-"

"No, we can't," Hank agreed, and his gaze darted across the field, his mind ticking behind his glasses like double-time clockwork. "Serpentine movements north, we can flank them; if nothing else, they'll panic." He vaulted the hill and zigged his way up towards the brawl. Jim could see a few other groups all doing the same, ignoring the whistle of shells and grenades as they flew above and past them, and they, eight in all, circled around, then gathered behind the Germans who'd taken the tiny French company.

All at once, all in a line, just like practice. Rifles out. Aim.

_Hit that target._

_Sir, yes, sir._

Jim pulled the trigger at the same time as all the others, and six men fell, and three others yelled panic in barbaric swears. Some of the Germans turned to face them, but one of them began shouting what sounded like a command even to Jim. He glanced askance to Hank, but if he understood them, then he had no time to say as much. The Germans scrambled up and back over their line, and the remaining French yelled a war cry and went to move after them, until their corporal shouted.

"Non, non! Nous devons sortir d'ici d'abord, on n'a pas de temps à perdre sur eux! Laisse les morts, passons!" The French soldiers who remained standing, surly to a man, jumped over their fallen brethren. Jim saw something fiercer than rage in Guy's face.

"Let's keep with them." Hank jostled Jim's elbow. "I'm going to speak with their corporal, they should send a scout ahead to see if they can still get through to the city tonight." He jostled his way through and spoke aloud, catching the leader's attention, and Jim could only stand in wonderment. Hank was thinking in two languages and keeping everything straight in his mind, and he was barely pulling off the tactics that had been drilled into him during training.

The French contingent listened to Hank's rapid chatter, and the corporal argued briefly, before nodding to a few soldiers and sending them up the path through the German line. The rest of the French soldiers broke into groups, and Jim heard a "merci" from their corporal as they scattered across the field again, all pushing East. Jim sought out Hank again, and found him following after Guy and Simon.

Of course.

Jim didn't have to know a word of French to know Simon was swearing, and Jim could see him limping. Guy was muttering to him, prodding him forward, "Presque la, presque la." He wrapped an arm around his back. "Allons-y arriver..."

"Tais-toi! Imbécile!" Simon's voice was a gravelly rasp, and when Jim caught up, he saw dark blood staining his trousers, and tiny holes where the shot had pierced the blue. Guy looked wounded at being pushed back, and winded from their jaunt. Hank, leading up the rear, ushered the others forward with a few motions of his arms.

"Keep moving. You know they know our positions." His gaze tilted towards the horizon again under the brim of his helmet, and Jim realized what he'd seen: the Germans were taking positions behind their lines, and whatever nasties they had back there would soon be headed their way. He wanted to lift his rifle and shoot them down, but the shot would never land. His service pistol was likely too weak just the same. Anything they had that could fire back was in the trenches left by the last men. They had to get there.

At least they could see it now, fortified ridges and the cross flying against the starlight. There was a faint whistle and a pop, as something exploded in the distance, and from the direction of the Germans' line. Someone had gotten to their mortar and was laying back, but if the planes closed and gave cover fire, they'd be sitting ducks.

"C'mon, lads, don't make me fuckin' carry you." He jogged past the others, clearing the way, and threw back a mad grin. "Last one to the trenches has to dance naked in no-man's land!"

His rifle jostled his hip, his pistol trembling there, but he would draw and shoot at anyone or anything who might stop him. The other soldiers were getting ahead of them, and while keeping some space was good, none wanted to be the the straggler picked off like the last tin can on the fencepost. Jim kept beckoning the others forward, "C'mon, fellas!" even as his voice started to be drowned out by the closing planes and the tanks rumbling into position behind them.

Then, the shells began to fall, their impact around them an unearthly boom the likes of which Jim was not equipped to describe. It was as if hell itself had thrown a gate wide, iron clanking against earth and echoing across the horizon.

The night became blacker and ever blacker, clouded now by smoke. Jim jumped at each noise, at the tanks firing over the line, at the shells falling in front of them, at each bang of the mortar, but he spun in place nonetheless and called back to the others. "The land gets lower here, we're near the clear!" It was getting ever louder, chaos erupting, he couldn't see through the smoke and chunks of dirt and earth popping up in sprays. Some of it had to be theirs now, coming from behind him, soaring over his head like David's stones slung towards Goliath, but they fell everywhere and Jim couldn't tell whose was whose anymore. If one struck him, it wouldn't matter.

He could see their flag. Through the chaos, he could still see the Union Jack, fluttering frantically in the whipping winds. He centered his focus on that, only that, on Mother country, on shelter from this storm, but then, God, then, there was an impact in front of him, and Jim was shaken to his knees.

He dared look up, only to know his fear face to face. A shell, bigger than his head. Hank's words flooded back through his mind, and all Jim could do was utter an oath and dive into the dirt beside him, clutching his helmet to his face and praying that if death came, it was swift.

Hell opened its maw before him, and suddenly, all Jim knew was pain.

Searing, white hot pain. Implacable, unimaginable noise. He was being rent limb from limb, his legs and arms all dragged through broken glass. There was some sort of cackling in his ear.

It all resolved into a single voice, muttering nonsense and gibberish, as his vision resolved into stark stripes of black and brown. He could feel his chest breathing, his own rasp and wheeze like metal scraping concrete, and that voice, that same voice...

"Quittez haletant. Vous avez une bouche comme un poisson." He blinked a few times, and his vision resolved into Simon, sneering at him and shaking his head. Jim couldn't make his mouth move, his face paralyzed. Simon tossed his head, then smirked and crooned, "Quelque chose ne va pas? Manquant la tétine, mon petit choux?" Jim felt a little sick, and looked to his own hand. He could, somehow, lift it and flex it.

Hell was surreal. Too surreal.

"Am I alive?"

Simon, of course, scoffed again. "Peur d'un flash grand, lâche." It was then that Jim started putting the pieces of the rest of the world back into place.

He had been left in a heap against the dirt wall of the bunker, and though his face screamed pain, the rest of him was whole but shaky. Simon was slumped beside him with his pants off, and he had been left slumped in the dirt as well. There was still gunfire, still chaos beyond his view, smoke and shouting, and now there were men rushing back and forth in front of him. He could hear his corporal shouting, and tilted his gaze around to catch a snatch of their frantic, angry conversation:

"What the bloody hell're you – speak English, you daft frog!" The corporal, purple in the face and shouting just to be heard, and to be heard in a rage.

"- les Boches!" Guy was squeaking, spitting, frothing at the mouth, too agitated to remember his second language. "Les Boches, les Boches, les Boches! Ils étaient sur le chemin, nous ne pouvons pas obtenir autour d'eux!"

"Les Boches," Simon said aloud, towards the corporal. "Les Allemands." He grunted. "Les Teutones."

"Teutonic twits," Jim parroted something he'd read in one of John's letters. Thoughts of John swirled through his mind, grinning with all of his teeth and welcoming him with open arms, God, was he ever going to see him again? He wondered through the fog if he'd died from a German shell or an English one. He still wasn't sure he'd lived through it. He touched his face a few times, and looked at his hand again to discover it stained crimson and umber, and a sick feeling set in. However, a pack of cigarettes was shoved in his open hand, and Jim realized it was Simon's hand withdrawing.

"Calme-toi, stupide."

Jim managed to get a cigarette to his lips, his hand shaking as he gripped his lighter, but sucking in that first lungful of smoke was enough to tell him he was still alive. Everything crystallized. They were in the trenches. There were Tommies on all sides, shooting over the barrier, firing off their mortars across no-man's land. He was alive.

Simon, too, was alive, and he was fishing down at Jim's hip. "Oh-la-la, ce qui est agréable." Jim shifted his focus away from recognizing that he was alive to see Simon turning a pistol over in his hands, then feeling around at the side of his own tunic. "Les françaises sont de la merde." Simon leaned over to him again, but when Jim tried to lean over and see what he was doing at his belt, he was rewarded with a sting of pain and a few drops of blood on his thigh. He looked at his palm again and grimaced at the blood smeared there.

The nightmares of which Hank had whispered crept back in, of disfigurement, of wounds weeping green pus, _infected and succumb to fever, infected and succumb to fever_ , shit, he felt so _hot._ He mopped his brow, then stared into his palms again. "God, how hideous am I?" Simon raised an eyebrow, and very slowly responded:

"No. Speak. Anglais."

Jim groaned and held his head, every sound aching him as Guy and the corporal continued to shout:

"Out! You need to get out! Fucking froggies got to go!"

"Voulez-vous que nous mourions?!"

One voice cut through, straight to Jim's ear: "Corporal, whatever intelligence we had was bad. Their path is closed off." Hank burst through the chaos with an aid kit and dropped down to kneel at Simon's side. "La balle est pas profonde. Je vais creuser dehors et sa jambe ira bien."

Still so calm, even as he held his pocket knife over a lighter. His gaze flicked to Jim for a second, then back to the white metal of the blade. "Jim, how does your face feel?" His voice held caution and trepidation. Jim swallowed.

"It hurts. A lot. It's awful."

Hank sighed with what sounded like relief. "Good. You can feel it." He rested a hand on Simon's thigh. Simon trembled, but Hank caught his eye. "Puis-je?"

Simon gritted his teeth and ground out, "Fais le." Hank dug the knife in, and Simon shouted and seized Jim's shoulder to ground himself. Jim squawked, but he could see the knife in Simon's leg, but a second later, there was a blood-covered bullet in Hank's palm. Hank tossed the bullet and continued to work, and Jim smelled alcohol and blood. Simon had not released Jim's shoulder, and his fingers were still shaking. He released him when Hank patted his leg.

"Essayez de ne pas bouger. Guillaume, he's alright." Hank shifted around to crouch next to Jim, as Guy keened with relief and broke away from the corporal to kneel down next to Simon.

"Désolé, je suis désolé, Simon, je -"

Simon seized both his shoulders (finally releasing Jim) and hushed him, then began to feed words into his ear: "Dites-lui ce qui est arrivé. En anglais. Calmement."

"Jim." Hank gathered Jim's attention back in, even as Guy started to explain again, his quiet voice like the gentle babble of a river under the waves of chaos. "Your face. I have to stitch it up."

Jim struggled for words as he took it in – Hank holding a bottle of the same alcohol he'd smelled on Simon's leg and a wad of gauze – but managed to stay Hank's hand. "What- what is-" He swallowed and grasped at his face again, but Hank dropped his alcohol to keep him from touching his cheek.

"Two creases down the side of your face." Hank mirrored the wound on his own face, dragging his index and middle finger in a crescent from his cheekbone to his jaw. "Not deep, but deep enough that they need stitched. You got far enough out of the way that it was just a glancing blow, and thank goodness." He wet the alcohol on the gauze and dabbed it at Jim's face, and it burned like a brand. "You're tremendously lucky that was all you got." Jim glanced at the gauze as Hank put it aside, at the blood staining it before someone else running by stomped it into the mud, but when he looked back, Hank had a needle and thread in hand, the needle still white-hot from the lighter, and regret in Hank's knit brow. "I don't have anything I can give you for the pain. I'm sorry."

That needle was going in his face. Jim flinched, but braced himself. He was a soldier, after all.

He'd known this was a possibility. This was the mildest of nightmares by compare. If nothing else, he'd made it, and Hank as well, but in retrospect, it had been nothing like he'd expected. Had John felt this way? What was Hank thinking? Hank didn't speak of it, he merely pursed his lips and pushed the needle in. Jim grabbed Hank's waist and bit his lip, and waited for it to be over.

He had been so excited for his first moments of heroism, fighting for homeland and shooting down the enemy where they stood, that despite every warning, he'd forgotten they would be shooting back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Bullecourt, mentioned by the corporal, was an event in April 1917 during which British and Australian forces in the 4th Division were completely crushed as a fighting force, unable to return to action for months.
> 
> "Crown and Anchor" is a British card game, very popular in the era.
> 
> To "French" a man is to perform oral sex. "Suck-off" is the same, "fluters" are people who engage in such activities. "Spigots," "nightsticks," and "axes" are slang terms for the phallus. "Marbles" is slang for testicles. (Research is so much fun.)
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> Simon: "Demandez ce qu'il veut." - "See what he wants."
> 
> Guy: "Elle voudrait si vous voulez écrire, aussi." - "She'd like to hear from you, too." 
> 
> Guy: "Pere St. Simon" - Father St. Simon, referring to a priest.
> 
> Guy: "Tante! Grand-tante!" - "Aunt! Great-aunt!"
> 
> Simon: "S'il dit quelque chose de dégoûtant Tante Constance, lui dire quel âge elle a." - "If he's saying something gross about Aunt Constance, tell him how old she is." 
> 
> Simon: "Il parle de fellation, idiote!" - "He's talking about oral sex, stupid!"
> 
> Guy: "Elle est de cinquante-six!" - "She is fifty six!"
> 
> Hank: "Il n'a pas dit quoi que ce soit trop offensive?" - "He didn't say anything too offensive?"
> 
> Simon: "On pourrait penser qu'il était l'enfant entre les deux." - "You would think he was the child between those two."
> 
> Simon: "Il peut l'avoir traumatisé en pensant à notre tante au lit avec son majordome." - "I think he might have brought up a memory of our aunt in bed with her butler."
> 
> Simon: "C'est aujourd'hui le jour. Avez-vous envoyé une lettre à votre famille?" - "Today is the day. Have you sent a letter home?"
> 
> Hank: "Non. Je l'ai écrit à ma sœur la semaine dernière. Cependant, je ne veux pas l'inquiéter." - I wrote to my sister last week, but I don't want to worry her."
> 
> The French corporal: "Non, non! Nous devons sortir d'ici d'abord, on n'a pas de temps à perdre sur eux! Laisse les morts, passons!" - "No, no! We have to get out of here first, we don't have time to waste on them! Leave the bodies, let's move!"
> 
> Guy: "Presque la, presque la. Allons-y arriver..." - "Almost there, almost there. We'll make it..."
> 
> Simon: "Tais-toi!" - "Shut up!"
> 
> Simon: "Quittez haletant. Vous avez une bouche comme un poisson." - "Quit gasping. You got a mouth like a fish."
> 
> Simon: "Quelque chose ne va pas? Manquant la tétine, mon petit choux?" - "Aww, is something wrong? Missing the tit, sweetie?"
> 
> Simon: "Peur d'un flash grand, lâche." - "Scared of a big flash, the coward."
> 
> Guy: "Les Boches! Les Boches, les Boches, les Boches! Ils étaient sur le chemin, nous ne pouvons pas obtenir autour d'eux!" - "The Germans! The Germans, the Germans, the Germans! They were in the way, we couldn't get around!" Boches is a slang term derived from the word "cabbage." In a way, he is in fact shouting "Cabbage-heads." 
> 
> Simon: "Les Boches. Les Allemands. Les Teutones." - Simon uses three words for "German" here. "Allemands" is the proper word, and Teutones is another slang term, used in the hopes that the corporal might recognize it.
> 
> Simon: "Calme-toi, stupide." - "Calm down, stupid."
> 
> Simon: "Oh-la-la, ce qui est agréable. Les françaises sont de la merde." - "Oh, this one's nice. The French ones are shit."
> 
> Guy: "Voulez-vous que nous mourions?!" - "Do you want every one of us to die?!"
> 
> Hank: "La balle est pas profonde. Je vais creuser dehors et sa jambe ira bien." "The bullet isn't in deep. I'll dig it out and his leg will be fine."
> 
> Hank: "Puis-je?" - "May I?"
> 
> Simon: "Fais-le." - "Just do it."
> 
> Hank: "Essayez de ne pas bouger." - "Try not to move it."
> 
> Guy: "Désolé, je suis désolé, Simon, je -" - "Sorry, I'm so sorry, Simon, I-"
> 
> Simon: "Dites-lui ce qui est arrivé. En anglais. Calmement." - "Tell him what happened. In English. Calmly."


	4. The Slog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days on the front line aren't what Jim thought they would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a little bit of medical squick in this chapter, including mentions of disease and surgery. Nothing explicit, but fair warning.
> 
> If you have any questions about history-specific items mentioned in the chapter, please ask! I'll make notes at the end of the chapter.

**4: The Slog**

Jim wanted to peel back the bandage and look at what had become of him, but there wasn't a mirror for miles anyhow.

He had found a puddle left in a crater, flooded out from the wet earth and dark enough to reflect his face in the light, only to see that three-quarters of his face was unmarred – a few tiny nicks on his forehead notwithstanding – but the patch of bandage covering the left side of his jaw told the tale. Hank had said "two creases," and Jim had felt him stitch two lines. (He'd felt every stitch.) He wanted to see what they looked like, but Hank had begged him to keep them covered so he wouldn't get dirt in the wound. They needed to heal anyway. Hopefully they would turn up neat and clean and barely noticeable, enough for a good war story and nothing more.

He knew he hadn't the worst of it. Simon still limped, trying to keep weight off of his injured leg as he paced his patrol along the lines. Jim had spotted Hank changing his bandages around sunup, long after the smoke had settled and when the noise had nearly died, wrapping his leg tight with cloth bandages and muttering instructions in French – likely to keep it covered and clean, just the same. Jim also noticed that the little holes where the pellets had gone through Simon's pants had been stitched up with the same thread Hank had used on his face.

Hank was still asleep. Once the corporal had spotted him administering aid to him and Simon, he set Hank to work doing what he could for every wounded man who'd managed to drag themselves into their post, since a month of medical school was more than anyone else in their regiment had. He patched up bullet wounds and nasty cuts, and, most horrifying, Jim spotted him headed towards the back of the line with a fierce-looking saw, then heard screams. He'd been allowed to fall into sleep when the sun began to rise, but Hank was still hard at work. As Jim walked along the boards that lined the floor of their trench, he made sure to peek down into the alcove where Hank was curled up next to four other men, his glasses in his front pocket and his rifle propped against his knees, just to make sure he was still asleep. He deserved every second he could get.

Even Hank hadn't had the worst of the night. That dubious glory went to the men who'd been carried out in the morning, glass-eyed and motionless. The men Hank had not been able to save, or that had been beyond saving before he could even try. Jim knew he'd seen Paul and Carl among the dead, and there were so many more whose names he didn't know, who he hadn't had the chance to know. He didn't know how many there were. He hadn't been made to dig the hole for them.

In the end, all that Jim knew for certain was that he was to patrol this section of the trench, from the sandbag marked with a 3 to the spot where the barbed wire went from two coils to one. He wasn't too badly injured to move, his vision was unimpeded. He could march along the line and watch the other side of the field, just to see if Gerry was about and moving and if they took even one step closer.

He could see them, at least. He could see the field they'd been left in, the soaked-through dirt and the grasses all trodden down but for a few pathetic patches of thistle and purple heather that still insistently poked through the mud, and he could see the concrete blocks lining the German lines. Green-gray uniforms bobbing up and down the opposite row, their helmets just in view. Jim couldn't see their faces, but he could make out that the helmets they were wearing were a different design than the famed spiked one that the rest of the PBI had all been chatting about picking up. Still, going over the top wouldn't be worth it. They could likely see him just as well as he could see them in broad daylight, and hardly a half-kilometer of dirt separated them. Daring to cross the line would only be a quick ticket into the great whopping hole that had been dug the night before.

Instead, he marched his beat, his rifle at his shoulder, his pistol at his hip, and Hank asleep beside him. Simon was limping next to what remained of the French contingent, and Guy had been positioned near him. He would sometimes wave to him when they were near one another. Guy would smile and grimace at once, and at one point, Jim took a cigarette break at the spot where their paths intersected just to check in on him:

"You're lookin' under the weather, mate. Problem?"

"Non." Guy grimaced again, but lifted his foot. Brown water dripped from the toe of his shoe. "There is a spot where the boards are sunken in, and my boots are soaking. I will ask the corporal, but I do not know if he will care."

"Hn." Jim grunted, but poked his head around to pretend he was still paying attention to the utter nothing the Huns seemed to be doing. "Walk light if ya can, mate. It's all a load of muck out here."

"That is not the worst." Guy crossed his arms. "I cannot talk with Simon, as he is posted over there. But I was told must be here so that I can speak with Hank when he wakes. I worry for him." His brow knit up, and he shifted from foot to foot and shivered despite the warm sun. "He is still hurt."

Jim couldn't forget how utterly charged Guy had been the night before, nearly losing himself as Simon sat wounded. "He's alright, mate. Hank took real good care of him, and he's almost moving like normal."

"I still must worry! He is not as strong as me." Guy's arms crossed tighter, but before he could go on, there was a distant shout in French, and he huffed, set his rifle back on his shoulder, and about-faced. "I will speak with him when they let me rest," were his parting words, mumbled with all the surliness and bitterness of any child deprived.

Jim finished his cigarette and tossed it over the sandbags, certain someone would be screaming his name too if he didn't pretend he had a job to do.

But it was just walking, walking, walking. Back and forth, minute after minute, hour after hour. Each footstep drummed, drummed, drummed, _drummed_ into his ears, the echo of his boots on the planks driving into him and droning in and through him. He listened for other noise over it, for any sound from across the field, but that only made him jump at anything that wasn't the beat of his own gait. The rustle of grass in the wind. The shriek of some bird of prey in the distance. The soldiers asleep in the alcove groaning. Hank mumbling and laughing in his sleep.

Jim had his pistol trained on Hank for ten seconds before the rest of him caught up with his hand, and his arm began to shake when he realized what he'd done. He lowered his pistol, but staring dead ahead, he could see back to the previous night, to looking down his rifle's sight at the other man and pulling the trigger. Had his shot hit? Who had he struck down? Did he kill a man last night?

Wasn't that his job?

Not right now. Right now, patrolling this section of the trench was his job. Jim tried to forget about everything else and returned to that, beating his path into the dense dirt.

After a few hours, the corporal came by, but though Jim straightened up like a tin soldier when he came close, the corporal passed him by in favor of stopping in front of the alcove. "All arise, up and at 'em!" Hank grasped at his rifle and blinked around, his eyes wide with confusion. He groped around and found his glasses perched on his head, then sighed with relief and shoved them on. Jim wanted to protest, because poor Hank, he couldn't have slept more than three or four hours, but he had no intention of arguing with orders. The corporal spun on his heel to face Jim. "Shankhill, take a break, show these fellows where the coffee and grub is." The corporal then continued on his way through. Jim had to squint around until he spotted the little marker that indicated where their mess was, but as he did, Hank squeezed his arm, his hand shaking.

"Jim." Hank was pale, his lips nearly blue despite the humidity, and his speech toneless and unsteady. "Jim, I need to look at your stitches and Simon's leg but most importantly I need coffee. Kindly show me where there is coffee."

"Er. Yeah." Jim waved to the other soldiers. "This way, mates." He tromped down the planks with Hank close at hand. Hank didn't speak another word, as if he didn't trust himself, or couldn't until he had some caffeine to substitute for the sleep he didn't get.

"You'd think," he remarked under his breath to Hank, "they'd want the fellows holding the line to be well-rested."

Hank pressed his lips together for a moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose and muttered, "Perhaps more important they have men to hold the line at all."

Their mess, such that it was, happened to be little more than a little fire in a deep section of trench and a place to stow the lunch boxes sent up from the support lines, was even less impressive now that Jim was fully awake, but there was a kettle of coffee hung over the flame and a pot of porridge on the coals. Jim knew both were burnt, but hell, any breakfast was better than no breakfast. Caffeine improved Hank's color and temperament, so as the other men finished their rations, he took Jim aside and peeled the bandage back. Jim saw him flinch, but bit his lip as Hank poured a bit of water onto his kerchief and wiped around it.

"Let's just keep this clean, shall we? It seems to be healing, if a bit swollen. I'm afraid you're certain to have a scar." He replaced the bandage and rubbed it back onto Jim's cheek with care. "A lovely story for the pub when you get home."

Jim searched for a smart retort, but he could only think of what other stories he might have. Like the man he'd shot the night before. Or whichever others he might have to shoot. Instead, he huffed out into his collar and patted the bandage. "It'll be an attention-getter. Thanks for taking care of it, mate."

Hank, chuffed, smiled and lowered his eyes. "Well, it's the least I can do. I'm not good for very much, but I'll do what I can." He then inhaled, puffing out his chest and rolling his shoulders back. "I had best check on Simon. I'm appalled they're putting him to work so soon, but a wounded man is better than none at all. I'll hurry back before the corporal catches me at it." He skirted around Jim and hurried off down the trenches, and Jim could see him looking at the markers as he passed them. He winced as he realized that Hank, barely awake and without enough sleep to sate a bat, was already thinking on his feet.

And Jim had already thought he was useless. Hank was making that sense ever deeper.

Jim returned to his post once he'd drunk his coffee and ate a tin of bully beef (which, despite some of the frustrated mutters he heard from others, was nothing worse than what he could cook for himself), and the patrol began again. Guy had left his post, likely given a break, and Hank soon came around to take his place. However, this only meant that he could hear another set of footsteps behind his, just out of sync thanks to Hank's shorter gait and his occasional odd stagger. He heard Hank shout what sounded like an oath after a while ("Good grief!" or something along those lines, the strongest language he'd likely hear out of him), and spun around to see him shaking his foot and scowling at the mud.

"Are you alright, mate?"

"It's-" Hank sputtered, kicking at the wall. "Puddle. The trench is too low, it's flooding over here." His face and ears were bright red, but Hank lowered his shoulders, groaned under his breath, and knelt down. "Graces, of course we're just the infantry, but you think they'd..." He untied his laces, yanked his sock off, and wrung it out. "... care at all if... hmph." He shook his sock out, scrutinized it, then pulled it back on with a sigh. "Nothing else I can do for it. Do yourself a favor and keep your feet dry, yes?" He pivoted and returned to his beat, albeit with his shoulders hunched and a scowl fixed on his face.

That ugly look was a fright, a chill right through Jim's core. However, he soon forgot that brief moment in the drudgery of the day.

Jim waited and waited for something to happen, for the chance to be the soldier he'd been trained to be,

But it didn't come. All he had were hours and hours of marching, marching, marching, back and forth. March, march, pivot, march, march back. Over and over, on and on, march, march, march. The boredom was maddening, but it was all, everything, everything, all there was.

The corporal appeared again after innumerable hours, looking as haggard as Jo had seen him, and thumbed over his shoulder. "Shankhill, dinner." Jim glanced over his shoulder to Hank, but the corporal passed him by. He hesitated a moment longer, then threw a quick wave to Hank and trudged off towards their piteous mess.

Dinner was the same porridge he'd gotten for lunch, with the addition of a cold tin smuggled up from the support line containing stewed beef and potatoes, with the worst mushy peas he'd ever seen. He missed the pub a little more with each spoonful, because, sure they knew him too well to be fooled by his request for a pint, but at least after a plate of their overcooked slop, his belly was warm when it was full.

Then, sleep. He and a few of the men who'd been patrolling the trenches near him were packed into the alcove that Hank was guarding now. Hank paused his routine as Jim hunkered down into the dirt dugout, crouched at his shoulder, and gestured to his rifle.

"Take that off your shoulder, put your pistol on your chest. I found it awkward to sleep with it at my hip."

"I think I'll find it awkward to sleep at all," Jim groused, and shifted in place. The ground was wet under him and the little space smelled of mildew. No blanket or pillows but their packs. Hank's wan smile, thinner than weak tea, spoke of sad, blue humor.

"If you're tired enough, it will come. If you're not asleep in an hour, trip me." He rose up with no further farewells and returned to his beat. Jim watched him for a few minutes, then grinned to himself. There was a queer comfort in knowing Hank would be watching over him as he slept so close to enemy lines. The even stranger comfort came from actually resting his bones and realizing how very sore he was, how weary his legs, how his shoulders ached from bearing the weight of his rifle.

His eyes fell shut. For a moment, the image of his rifle blasting at the German soldier flashed too-bright through his mind. He rubbed his eyelids, fished around his side pocket for a flask of rum, took a long drink, and lowered his chin.

Exhaustion barreled into him, and he wasn't even aware he slept.

He wasn't aware he slept until he was jostled from it by the pound of an explosion in the distance, and a tremor that made the whole earth shake around him. Dirt and gravel caught in his cap, and he grasped desperately for his rifle. He was talking. He wasn't sure what he was saying. He scrambled and covered his face with his hands. The ground still shuddered, only now, there was distant shouting that Jim couldn't make out.

Distant. Nowhere near him. He poked his head out of the alcove, just as the corporal shouted "Stand-to!" down the row. Hank and several others were lined up, spaced out along the trench, watching. From down below, Jim could only make out the flashes of explosions that briefly made night as bright as day, the echo of gunfire, the steady rat-tat-tat of a machine gun, and the shudder of heavy shells hitting the ground. He found himself grasping at the bandage on his cheek, swallowed, and composed himself enough to lean out.

"Oi, Hank," he hissed, but he didn't turn. "Collins!" That got him to turn around, but Hank just motioned for Jim to sit back in the alcove.

"There's a raid a little bit over. Different company. We're on watch in case the enemy comes this way."

"Shit, well, why don't you shoot 'em?!"

"Anything we attempted would accomplish only insubordination charges." Hank turned around again, motioning for Jim to sit back again. "Just go back to sleep. If you don't sleep now, you won't have another chance."

Jim stared in disbelief, as Hank and all the other men he knew stood along the trench, just watching, _just watching_ , but as sense settled into him, he remembered that Hank wasn't wrong. If they'd been ordered to stand and watch, then doing anything less would mean court-martial, being docked pay, and being tossed in irons and shipped to the Tower.

He hunched back into the little cubby, next to the other soldiers who'd roused at the noise, and bowed his head, eyes shut tight and rifle clasped to his chest. The world still shuddered around him, gunfire echoing through his ears, but his orders were to sleep.

So sleep he did, though the world rocked and roared around him.

* * *

"Stand-to, stand-to!" The sergeant's voice echoed down the row. Jim opened his eyes to find himself still in the alcove, and the other men who had been packed in with him were all groaning and opening their eyes. Still, he clambered out, already pulling his rifle up, and put himself up on the fire step to see over the edge, shoulder to shoulder with Kent or Tom, whoever was there. Dawn, just barely crowning the horizon, was blinding from the West, crossing the whole muddy field with streaks of white and yellow, and Jim squinted North to the enemy line. Every man put his rifle forward, because every last man they faced was aiming right back at them.

They stood. They aimed. They waited. Minutes trickled by like sand into a tiny, tiny funnel. Jim felt his heart race at the thrill, because if they shot, he could shoot back. That'd show 'em.

But nobody did. They were all standing, pointing their rifles, and waiting just the same. Jim's trigger finger itched and twitched, but he didn't dare, not unless ordered.

Then, someone on his left cried war, and there was a pop and a splatter of mud near the enemy front. The Germans all screamed, and shells started flying. Jim was blinded now by the splattering mud and shrapnel, and he ducked back to cover his face, burying his face behind the sandbags, then sprung back up, aimed, and let off a round of shots.

They exchanged fire, back and forth, shouting swears and insults over shells fired and reloading bullets. Even Jim found his mouth moving: "FUCKING BASTARDS! EAT SHIT!" The minutes, that had dragged like feet through mud, were suddenly torn away in a hurry and flurry of gunfire. He didn't need to think to pull the trigger. They were shooting him, he had to shoot back.

The smoke cleared, and after a few aching minutes of silence, Jim still staring down at the greys in their trenches with his finger on the trigger, the sergeant shouted for all to stand down, he stepped down into the trench again, his boots splashing into the muck. Someone at the end of the row called down "Stand attention, lads, the corporal's coming!" Jim, not knowing what else to do, followed orders. He set his pistol at his hip and stood attention in the trench with his rifle at his shoulder. The barrel was still hot.

The corporal marched past and sneered at the line of them, studying each of them. Jim tried to look down at himself, wishing he could be certain he was set right enough, but then, he was no less muddy and scraped up than the rest of the fellows. The corporal marched down, looking each of them over, then stopped in front of him. "You, Shankhill." Then, he motioned over his shoulder. "Have Collins check your cuts before you report again." Then, he went down the row, instructing one to restock bullets in his section after rifle inspection, you're between the A flags today, the sandbags need filled rudimentary orders. It gave the rest of Jim's head a chance to wake up and smell burning meat.

He knew for certain that there wouldn't be hot food, so he knew precisely what that was.

There seemed to be fewer bodies gathered in the section of the trench that seemed to be designated for meals, but Jim wasn't sure if that was a reflection of the previous night's German raid or merely timing. It seemed different men were on different schedules, and things would likely shift as need did. He didn't have time or mental space to think about it, focusing blindly on his gruel and coffee and letting nothing distract him but for his bandage. The longer he sat in the sun, the more the adhesive began to itch, and it was taking a significant amount of his willpower not to scratch it.

Then, it became a matter of thinking of anything other than the bandage and gashes, forcing it from his mind to take in the quiet from all the other men shoveling down their portions, and then the distant hum of tanks on the move somewhere up the line and the occasional smattering of machine gun fire. He kept quiet and cleaned his rifle, running mud out from every crevice and scrubbing soot and ash from the barrel, lost in the details and the sound. Finally, a voice cut through the noise:

"Je cherche Henry. Montrez-moi où il est." Jim glanced up to see that Simon, still settling all of his weight on his right leg, was facing their corporal with his usual scowl. The corporal sneered.

"Get out of my face. No par-lay Fran-say."

Simon, unimpressed, crossed his arms. "Mon officier supérieur m'a envoyé. Je dois voir Henry. _Henry_."

"Fuckin'..." The corporal looked around with exaggerated motions. "Oi, anyone here speak frog? Not a bloke here what speaks frog, yeah?" He spun back to Simon. "Fuck off, froggie."

"Vous continuez à dire 'frog,' mais je ne sais pas ce que cela signifie. Stupide... je dois Henry." Simon gripped his leg, clearly struggling for words, his face red and starting to go purple. "Henry. Le Docteur."

Jim stuffed his cleaning cloth into his front pocket and rose up, saluting as he did. "Corporal, sir, I think he's looking for Henry Collins. The man's got a shot leg, and Collins is..."

"Ohh, Hank." The corporal snickered a bit. Simon raised an eyebrow.

"Personne ne vous a dit qu'il déteste être appelé cela?"

The corporal went on as if he hadn't heard him. "Bloody shame they couldn't've gotten lost with a medic, eh?" He seized Simon's shoulder – Jim didn't miss the expression of horrified disgust that crossed his face at the contact – and shoved him towards Jim. "I thought I told you to see him, too." He tapped his own cheek, and Jim grimaced and touched the bandage. "Lucky thing this bastard didn't get that, eh?" He cranked his thumb toward Simon with a smirk. "Them Frenchies're all good lookin', but ain't got nothin' in their heads, yeah?" Jim glanced to Simon, his scowl only deeper at listening to a conversation that was very obviously about him that he couldn't understand, and took in his sweat-matted hair and tightly-drawn jaw. Then, he guffawed.

"Well, can't say much for his looks, but I'll say he's lucky anyway. These fuckers itch like mad." He patted his cheek, then motioned to Simon. "Ah, Henry. This way. Me. You, come." He waved for Simon to follow him, and Simon gave the corporal one last hard look before falling behind Simon.

Jim wasn't sure where Hank was, but Simon's expression, that of a man subject to the scream of an infant in close quarters for a solid hour, screamed that he needed to be elsewhere as soon as possible. He escorted Simon down the trenches in taut silence, past the scraped ridges ruined by the previous night's attack and around the other infantry boys digging new trench and moving boards around to pad the soggy channel where they could. Simon followed in silence, but whether that was because Simon actually wanted to and trusted Jim or that he had no better idea of what to do was another question entirely. Jim glanced back at him a few times, slowing as he noticed him lagging.

"Leg hurt?" He said it slowly, indicating his leg and clenching a fist. God, he felt stupid. Simon, however, nodded.

"La balle est pas profonde, mon cul." He jerked his leg forward. Jim didn't get a word, but the sentiment was clear.

"Hank, help. Smart."

"Parlez comme un idiot ne me fera pas vous comprendre, idiot."

"I know what 'idiot' means in any language, ya blond tosser." Jim stuffed his hands in his back pockets and sniffed a bit, then begrudgingly glanced back at him. Simon was impassive, unmoved, but continued to follow Jim. "I ought'a say, uh... fuck..." He scratched his chin. "It's... mercy bow-coo, innit?"

"Merci beaucoup?" Simon's eyebrows knit up in puzzlement. "Pourquoi?"

Jim looked down, tracing the grooves in the boards lining the trench. "You talked to me. After bomb." He mimicked talking with his hands. "Gave me a smoke." He imitated putting a cigarette to his lips. "I was seeing spots, but, uh, I think you helped me figure I was still alive."

"Ah." Jim couldn't tell if Simon understood him, but Simon shrugged. "Si cela signifiait quelque chose pour vous, peu importe." Then he nudged Jim's side with his elbow. "Mais ne vous attendez pas plus."

Jim hoped that meant, "You're welcome." He was fairly certain it didn't, and that Simon hadn't gotten a word of what he'd said. At least he didn't look as tense. This was only evidenced by Simon snapping his fingers a few times, until Jim looked at him.

"Cigarette." He motioned smoking with his hand to his lips. Jim took out his case and offered one, but instead of taking one, Simon nodded. "Cigarette. Smoke?"

"Yeah. You smoke a cigarette." Jim popped a cigarette in, lit it, and took a quick puff. "Smoke. Cigarette."

Simon lowered his head a little, his eyes wide. "Smoke a cigarette." He took out a cigarette and lit one up himself, and the pair of them walked side by side, taking turns blowing clouds of smoke to the opposite side, having finally found a language they shared.

They found Hank after a short search, Jim asking any fellow who wasn't hunched over with his spade or driving in posts at the top of the trench, and they finally found Hank near the site of the previous night's raid, the aid kit at his side smudged with blood, crouched near the latrines and pouring water on his hands. Jim called his name, and he jerked to look at them in an instant, only to appear relieved. He led them to an empty alcove, and blocked the view to the outside with his body as best as he could. "Jim, kindly try to keep people from looking in. _May I see it, Simon?"_

Jim checked out the moment Hank switched languages, but Simon groused under his breath and yanked down his trousers to expose the bandages. _"They ought've just killed me."_

" _I don't think that would have been wise. Guillaume would have been alone, and I don't know how well he'd fare alone."_ Hank went through the motions of removing the bandages, cleaning around the stitched-up wound, and drying it off. _"How is he today?"_

" _Won't stop bitching about his shoes."_ Simon rolled his eyes. Jim glanced back at the mention of Guy, but turned away again at a dagger-sharp glare from Simon. _"He recovered quickly enough. He whines in the moment, but it passes quickly."_

" _I envy someone who can live in the moment so easily."_ He patched the bandage back over Simon's leg. _"I cannot tell you not to walk on it, but try and lean on the wall when your corporal is not looking. I imagine you'll do just as much good."_

"Feh!" Simon's upper lip curled, and though he twisted with discomfort, he tried to keep his leg still. _"We have no corporal anymore. He was buried this morning. It's just the man who's been in the army the longest."_

"Oh, gracious." Hank put a hand to his mouth. This caught Jim's attention again, but Hank shook his head. _"I apologize. It is merely a shock."_ He finished with the bandages. _"It is a mercy the both of you heal so quickly. Come to see me later if you can, but tomorrow, to be certain."_

Hank gestured to Simon, waving him off, then turned his attention to Jim, seating him in the alcove and easing him back. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Jim shrugged, but winced when Hank peeled back the bandage.

"Honestly, now."

Jim snorted, and tilted his face towards Hank, putting the wound into the light. "Well, I slept for shit and my face is sore, but I've got all my limbs, don't I?" Hank pursed his lips, then forced a nasal giggle and dug into the aid kit. Jim smelled the same alcohol as the first time Hank had cleaned it out, and felt his mouth turn down with instinctive dismay. Sure enough, there was the cotton, and Hank was dabbing white-hot fire to his cheek. He clenched his own knees to bear off the pain, and focused on the nearest thing: Hank's face. His eyes were ringed blue, as dark as a painted river, and he looked yellow and pale.

"How did the bandage get this filthy?" He frowned down at the removed gauze, and Jim grimaced, because he was certain it had been white when Hank had put it on him.

"Must've gotten splattered during the morning stand-to." He couldn't help a grin. "Saw some wild action this morning, eh?"

"Ah. The morning hate." Hank's pinched expression sunk further with disgust. "I suppose there's no better way to start one's morning than to nearly be killed. I suppose we're both lucky that we were not." Jim smothered his smile at that, as Hank surveyed him again. "Killed or worse."

"Call it good luck, I guess." He forced a humored expression, wiggling an eyebrow, but Hank was too busy looking him over. "Lucky I've got you to patch me up, anyway, yeah?"

"Hmm. You are lucky," he murmured, running his eyes over Jim's face. "After all, we can't very well amputate your face." This was accompanied with a twisted of a wry smile, and he dropped the wad of cotton fluff he'd been using and smoothed the pad of his thumb across the ridge. There was no humor in his expression, despite the smile, and Jim cautiously touched his hand.

"I'm guessing you've had it rough this morning."

Hank's smile collapsed. "Rather, yes." He rubbed the back of Jim's hand, then withdrew to search in the aid kit again. "I was co-opted into assisting the field medics. Apparently, a single month of medical school and my personal knowledge made me attractive."

"Ah." Jim shifted nervously as Hank brought out several gauze pads and soaked one with alcohol. "It's a learning experience, innit? Ain't you pickin' up some bits and bites about medicine as you go?"

This brought forth a dry laugh. "Oh gracious, Jim, what those men are doing isn't _medicine_." He inhaled just to sigh it out. "It's butchery." He wrung the soaked gauze out, then turned back to Jim. "I'm sorry, but this may sting."

Hank liked to couch things in "may" and "perhaps." If that was going where Jim thought it was, then he knew it was going to burn like a brand. He braced himself, and bit back a yelp when Hank laid the gauze flat over the whole of the wound. He cringed one eye open, taking in Hank's flat affect and expression beyond his own ache. "Wh-what do you-"

"Have you seen a bonesaw?" Hank pressed his palm to the gauze against Jim's cheek, his fingertips just dusting at his temples and the hair that had strayed from its place under his helmet. Jim shook his head, but hissed and winced as this served to shift the gauze and refresh the pain. "Ah. Perhaps, then, you have seen photographs of a crocodilian?"

"A wha-"

"An alligator," Hank clarified, voice hard. "From the American southern wetlands. Or a crocodile, like those which swim in the Nile."

"Yeah." There had been a sketch in one of their history textbooks. Their long snouts, the scales like armor. The teeth.

"Think of those teeth. Jagged, uneven, but you know, you know from a single look just how hard they can bite." Hank batted his eyelashes down. "That lower jaw is a bonesaw. It is the only real option we have out here when enough shrapnel is stuck in a man's limb." Jim faintly remembered the nasty-looking saw he'd seen bandied about the night before,

"What, how would that get little bits like that shrapnel out?"

"It gets it _off_." Hank drew the gauze away all at once, and Jim groaned. It felt like he'd taken a layer of skin with it. Hank then began to apply pressure to the wound, and Jim felt something wet start to drip down his face. Worry wrought Hank's face into a mask of fear, all the lines drawn to a taut point. "I am cleaning out a minor infection. I apologize for the pain."

Oh, there was pain, there was pain, there was _pain_. Jim bit back a groan, as Hank sighed and shook his head. "We can't do anything to help those who are worst off, we can only remove the limb and apply tourniquets to stop the bleeding. We cannot otherwise move men quickly enough to safety, for proper surgery, and even a proper surgeon likely wouldn't be able to do better. Ah, but even then I lie: those men amputated are not the worst off. Those worst off are those buried this morning." Hank withdrew from applying pressure to the wound and found the gauze again to clean his face. Jim gasped out the breath he'd been holding into a whispered swear, then looked and saw yellow and red streaking the fabric discarded at Hank's feet, and more red dripping sluggishly onto the dirt next to his hands. Hank hushed him. "I'm sorry; I've gotten it out." Hank found a little mud-brown flask in the dirt near his feet, and though Jim was ready to accept a drink, Hank instead opened the flask and poured its contents down Jim's jaw. It was water, and still a little warm. Hank must have boiled it. Hank carefully tucked the flask away again and set about drying the wound, his nose close to Jo's jaw as he leaned in to examine it. His touch was gentler now, the gauze dry, and Jim relaxed to it in happy contrast to the cleaning. Hank, too, had relaxed, if only a little. "Last night was bloody, and the cleanup this morning impossible. I did what I could, even if it was merely to hold a bucket here or there, or get a bit of wood to put in this man or that man's jaw so he wouldn't bite his own tongue off."

"Sounds dreadful." Jim's voice quavered - damned thing, he shouldn't have trusted it so soon - but he groaned and slouched back into the alcove. "They're lucky they had you to do all that." Hank hadn't seemed to notice his slip, instead finally putting on a contented smile as Jim tossed his hands up a bit. "I wish I could've helped before."

"Ah, but you did your job, and I've done mine, and sometimes, that's all we can do." Hank patched a fresh bandage onto Jim's cheek and taped it securely, and patted Jim's cheek one last time before withdrawing. "I, er..." He turned his gaze to the ground again, either looking at the blood soaking into the mud of anything but Jim's face. "I must apologize. My stitching job... it wasn't the neatest. Combine that with the infection today, and... I promise you're still quite handsome."

Jim could only take that to mean he really didn't want to see his scars. "Hey, mate, you did your best." Jim clapped Hank on the shoulder, squeezed, and rose to stand. "Have a good afternoon, then."

"I can only pray." Hank laughed weakly again, ducking down to wash his hands again. "But I suppose it can't be worse than the night. See me tonight, so I can check on your wound, yes?"

Jim stole one last glance at him, then marched off, his boots heavy and his face still sore.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent crawling along the wall near the site of the previous raid, being fed lines of barbed wire from below and running it between the stakes outside of the trench. The sun beat down on his back, the khaki of his uniform stuck in the puddles of sweat gathering in the dips of his shoulder blades and spine, and all the time, he was significantly conscious of the fact that he was in plain view. His only reassurances were that he was not alone, that Rob (or was that Andrew?) and Michael (one of them, anyway) were near him, whistling God Save the Queen or some folktune he didn't recognize in turns, and that despite the flurry of Germans in their gray uniforms watching them from their trenches, there were at least five men behind him, marching the row and watching them work. If Fritz did take a shot at him, then all the Tommies would come over the top to defend him.

But nobody was stupid enough to pull off a move like that in broad daylight.

In the evening, tea that had the distinct odor of green beans, cold beef, impenetrably dense biscuits out of tins, and beans warmed-over in the kettle were passed around the fire. Having something warm was better than nothing, so Jim didn't complain, not a word. He sat thigh-to-thigh with Hank in exhausted silence, and ate until there was nothing but sauce. His stomach ached for a while after, and Hank, too, looked distressed, even as he set about the motions of changing his bandages.

"Food disagreeing with you?" He spoke quietly and tried to keep his jaw still, as Hank focused through the firelight and the dying sun.

"The beans were undercooked. I ate them because I was hungry, but I can feel my stomach growling already."

Jim grimaced as Hank did, and tried to pull back. "If you're not feeling well, then this can wait-"

Hank captured his wrist to hold him in place. "I feel well enough. Only..." A wry smirk twisted through his frown. "I do not anticipate sleeping in a small, crowded space with four or five other fellows who've eaten the same as me."

"Why no- oh." Jim was caught between a chuckle and a snort at this. "Really? That's your big worry?"

Hank's clouded expression finally broke into a bright little laugh, and he drew Jim close again to finish patching his cheek. "Silly, I know, but I suppose it is easier to worry about experiencing excessive bouts of flatus than all the other things that might disturb our night."

The conversation was, too strangely, normal. Jim could pretend he wasn't hearing the bombs falling in the distance.

Jim took the first night watch, while Hank slept. He was posted next to Guy again, but Guy wasn't in a talking mood. He was scowling and complaining under his breath in French as he walked, and Jim, if he was being honest with himself, was a bit worried about trying to strike up a conversation. What if the Gerrys heard him? He marched in silence, back and forth, as clouds slowly swallowed the light of the moon. He didn't need to see that well to walk a straight line. He didn't need to think, either.

There was no raid that night. Jim slept restlessly, curled against his backpack, only fully shutting his eyes as the sun rose in the cramped, reeking alcove packed tight with too many other sweaty, bellyaching, exhausted soldiers.

When he rose in the morning, it was to a soaking rain. Mud was sliding down the side walls, and the boards on the floor were sinking into the muck. Jim put his feet on the ground and felt water run into the grommets of his bootlaces. He groaned, but stood to when called. Soldiers couldn't take a day off for weather. Wars were fought rain or shine.

What fighting there was.

Stand-to was hell. Jim could see the silhouettes of the Germans on their line, all facing out, rifles pointed straight across the stretch. After fifteen minutes, some of the idiots in the gunnery howled war and began to fire, the rattling clinking of gunfire like chains dragged across concrete, and the Germans fired back, but Jim couldn't tell if anything hit. If anyone was hit. All he knew was that he was soaking standing out in the open, his boots plump and swollen from taking on water.

The day was a matter of rote repair and patrol through the humid, wet hours, watching the Huns in their gray uniforms milling around against a gray horizon. Miserable bastards. Jim watched them over the edge, wondering what they were plotting. Somewhere in the distance, someone was digging another hole. The rain drilled down, washing the stench of rotting bodies down into the trench. Someone was digging another hole and filling it in.

Hank looked at his bandages after his morning shift, tsking and shaking his head. "You need to keep it dry, or you'll grow rot against your chin."

Jim glowered pointedly past Hank. "Mate, ain't shit dry for as far as I can see."

"I am well aware." Hank bit his lower lip. "That's what worries me most." He dried the skin on Jim's face. "I'll make the bandage thicker, and if you can keep your helmet forward just a bit, it may help to keep some of your face dry." He rubbed Jim's chin again, and Jim felt his chest squeeze when he pulled away to finish patching him up.

That night, after the evening meal (dismal once again), Jim was tapped by the corporal and got a whispered order to move to the backmost trench. An order was an order, after all. He found the remnants of their regiment, as well as the French regiment, all ten of them. Guy slouched at Simon's side, as Simon glowered impassively over the heads of everyone else as those who had been called trickled in. The sergeant, to Jim's surprise, arrived last. He couldn't recall seeing much of the man, only knowing he was old and thin, with a nose like a vulture's beak, and gravel in his tones. He glanced over all of the men gathered, then motioned for them to come close.

"Fellows, we'll be raiding tonight." Jim heard Guy mutter a translation to Simon and the other French soldiers, and heard Hank, behind him, suck in air. The sergeant pointed into the distance. "We'll be moving from up ahead, at the G flag you see. We've dug out a machine gun battery and we've got shells at the ready. There'll be an initial barrage, and once the smoke's rising, we'll go over the top and make a run for their line." He carefully glanced from eye to eye, to each stoic face. Jim, however, was stuck on the pained expression stuck on Guy's mug. The sergeant lit a cigarette, the light catching in the blue rings under his eyes, and he exhaled a stream of smoke before continuing. "It'll put us closer to Avion. If we manage this push, we'll be setting Fritz off his line. Our relievers will be pushing through No Man's Land near dawn. We've got a specialist of trench raiders coming up with us, all you need to do is clear the trench." Guy finished translating, and the corporal threw a brief glare behind him.

"Quoi?" Guy muttered, eyes narrowed to little slits. The sergeant snorted, then leaned down near him.

"Tell your men to push as far back through as you can."

Guy was quiet for a moment, then spoke loud enough for all to hear. "Il veut mourir ici." Simon cuffed Guy across the head, and whispered something Jim couldn't hear, and Guy grumbled, then added, "Il dit d'essayer de pousser à travers." ("He wants us to die here." "He says to try and push through.")

"Mieux," Simon groused, and Guy groaned and pivoted around to explain in full, and the . Jim, however, caught Hank's eye.

Hank looked afraid. Worried, even. Jim remembered that he'd seen the raid the night before. He knew what was coming next.

"'Ey." Jim nudged his hand against Hank's. "You and me, we'll go in together, we'll come back together."

Hank held his gaze for a moment, then squeezed Jim's hand for a second and just as quickly let go. When dismissed, they walked at the back of the pack, in lock step and towards their next target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Simon: "Je cherche Henry. Montrez-moi où il est." - "I'm looking for Henry. Show me where he is."
> 
> Simon: "Mon officier supérieur m'a envoyé. Je dois voir Henry. Henry." - "My superior officer sent me. I need to see Henry. Henry."
> 
> Simon: "Vous continuez à dire 'frog,' mais je ne sais pas ce que cela signifie. Stupide... je dois Henry." - "You keep saying 'frog,' but I don't know what that means. Stupid... I need Henry."
> 
> Simon: "Personne ne vous a dit qu'il déteste être appelé cela?" - "Nobody bothered to tell you he hates being called that?"
> 
> Simon: "La balle est pas profonde, mon cul." - "Bullet's not deep, my ass."
> 
> Simon: "Parlez comme un idiot ne me fera pas vous comprendre, idiot." - "Talking like an idiot won't help me understand you, idiot."
> 
> Simon: "Merci beaucoup? Pourquoi?" - "Thank you? What for?"
> 
> Simon: "Si cela signifiait quelque chose pour vous, peu importe. Mais ne vous attendez pas plus." - "If it meant something to you, whatever. Just don't expect more of it."
> 
> Guy: "Il veut mourir ici." "Il dit d'essayer de pousser à travers." - "He wants us to die here." "He says to try and push through."
> 
> Simon: "Mieux." - "Better."
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Bully Beef: A canned corned beef that was part of standard British army ration issue until 2009, provided as standard ration as well as "iron rations," or emergency food. Like most preserved meats, it had a reputation for being salty. Early in WWI, soldiers were supplied with ten ounces of meat daily, but as the German blockades became more effective, this was trimmed back to six ounces. Supplies were often moved from the support lines to the front lines by way of straw-packed boxes meant to hold heat, but it was not the most effective way of keeping meals warm. The meals I have mentioned are actual idealistic. When a line was under heavy shelling and supply lines were disrupted, meals were usually just rock-hard biscuits or bread (that might be up to eight days between baking and the front lines, in a time before preservatives!) and tins of bully beef.
> 
> "Stand-to" and "morning hate": Every morning and evening, men would be called to "stand to arms," or "stand-to," meaning to stand on the fire step of the trench with their rifles at the ready. Both sides did it, each anticipating an attack just after the sleeping hours or at nightfall. Usually, both sides would bear off the tension of the morning by firing at one another, including machine guns, shells, and small arms. This was the "morning hate," assuring safety at dawn as well as just letting off steam.
> 
> "What, how would that get little bits like that shrapnel out?" "It gets it off." - Medicine on the front lines was patchy, at best. Bullet wounds were comparatively uncommon next to shrapnel wounds, with the metal from shells embedding deep into limbs. Due to the nature of the front, medical care was not especially accessible, and without access to proper surgery, options for those with injuries were limited. Amputations were usually the only option to preserve life at all. Infections were common, and many were mutilated. Illness was also rampant, but that will be discussed further in later chapters.
> 
> Please let me know if you have any questions!


	5. Hell in the Trenches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim, Hank, and all raid the trenches, and the horror of war sets in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some blood, gore, and some disgusting descriptions. Proceed with caution.

**5:** **Hell in the Trenches**

Night fell without impact, the sky shimmering with tiny stars only visible this far from civilization. Jim had no time to stargaze. He was shoulder to shoulder with Hank, someone else on his other side, and a row of men with mortar cannons pushed up over the sandbags in front of them. Every man who'd been tapped had been given ammunition for their pistols, a string of grenades, and signal flares. The password for returning was "tinny ear," meant to be whispered across the line so they wouldn't be shot in the dark. He knew the drill. They'd practiced it a hundred times in training, vaulting the wall in a hurry and go over the top, running across the field, and clearing the trench of anything, any obstacle, in his way. There was a trench sweeper team at the ready behind them, NCOs who'd trained specifically to look for important documents and the like. Jim only knew not to get in their way. He had his instructions.

Hank had remained pensive since the orders came down. Jim had seen him try to break away to talk to Guy and Simon, but he hadn't been able to get through the surging crowds of men on the move to reach them. Now, the time had come, and being caught out of place would mean court-martial.

"It will be loud," Hank murmured, audible under the general stir around them. Jim nodded.

"If it's as loud going out as it is coming down..." He trailed off, not sure what else could be said. Hank knew. Instead, he checked himself over again. Rifle and bullets, stocked. He'd just cleaned the barrel and everything. He checked his pistol, then opened the chamber. It was only now he noticed something wrong with the pistol. "Let me see your sidearm, mate." Hank, without complaint, produced his pistol, and Jim squinted through the dark at the pair of them. Hank's was different in shape, a little longer, a little stouter around the barrel.

"St. Etienne, Modele 1892." Hank read, frowning, then took his pistol back from Him. "That's a French-issue pistol."

"Fuck." Jim stuffed it away before the corporal or, indeed, any officer saw it. "How in blazes-" The night he got injured came back to him, and he remembered, through the haze of pain, Simon grabbing something down at his side. "That frog bastard must've-!"

"No time." Hank tore his gaze away, back to the horizon, back to the enemy line. "Let's simply hope that they take the same kind of bullets."

Jim swallowed. Already, the gunners were taking their places and loading their charges, and all the men in the line braced themselves. Every man had been on the wrong end of those barrels before, whether it was the night before or the mad dash to the front line. Jim was almost morbidly fascinated to see it happen instead of just hearing it.

The charges were set. "Aim," someone said. Jim couldn't look away from the line of the horizon, their target, the flag of the enemy. The mortars all launched in near unison, like the single scream of a falcon, and the shells tore through the sky, leaving puffy streams of smoke in their wake. They looked almost innocent in motion, soaring carefree and with nothing but a whistle that Jim knew sounded like a scream up close, until they hit ground with an immense thud that shook the ground, a pop of smoke, a spray of mud, a crackle like lightning, and then screams as punctuation. Shrapnel, hot metal, Jim didn't have to see it to know it was there. The men at the cannons fired another volley, then another, then again, and Jim anticipated every whistle, every scream, every impact; the shriek of wind resistance wobbled his belly like wind in his sails. He watched, dumb, as they all soared and hit their target...

"Jim." Hank was shaking his arm. "Move!"

Jim realized he'd been standing still as the others had rushed forth around him, and hoisted his rifle to the shoulder and tumbled up and over the top of the trench. The sandbags crunched under his feet as he thundered across the plain, his boots crushing what ragged plants he encountered, mud spraying in his wake and his rifle jamming into his hip with each step. The sprint was nothing. It was exactly what he'd trained for.

The Germans started to fire on them when they were very nearly there, but Jim heard another volley of shells rise from behind him in answer, like schoolboys pitching sticks and throwing mud. He could imagine bullets flying past him, but he couldn't feel them, and that was all that mattered. The shells hit and spattered in the trenches west of them, as Jim reached the ramparts of the German line. He looked down and pointed his rifle, only to find that any men who had been there were long gone. He saw spatters of blood and heard gibberish shouting down the row, and felt rage like fire boil up through his chest. He tromped down the row, rifle at the ready. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he spun back to see a few other Tommies, indistinct under their helmets, at his back, and one of the raiders, an officer distinguished by his trench coat, took up the rear. He gestured forward.

"Move in, we gotta clear them out, every last bastard!" The officer waited for the Tommies to move, Jim at the head, and they rushed down the line. Jim heard footsteps in the trench and held a hand up.

"Wait!" He yanked a grenade from his side pocket, pulled the pin, and threw it ahead, then blocked the path with his arm. The others hung back behind him, and Jim squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the explosion. It was so much louder than his training prepared him for, and the concussive force reverberated against the dirt walls and through his braced arm, his trunk, his very heart. He wheezed as he caught his breath, his arm falling to unblock the path, and the NCO in his trench coat patted his shoulder as he rushed over him.

"Good catch, soldier." Jim glanced up as the officer passed him, and saw what he meant when he peered around the corner. There might have been a man there before. Jim could only see char, red flesh, and a ragged, fragmented pair of shoes.

The stench was indescribable and unmistakable, shit and blood and fire with a black note that Jim could only identify as death.

He got to his feet and dashed after the others, towards the sound of gunfire. He saw the men he'd been with all bunched up on a wall, rifles ready, and flattened himself against it to approach. "Tinny ear," he whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the roaring gunfire and the smashing of shells over the ridge, and joined the bunch in peering down the line. He could just make out two figures in gray breeches shouting down the row. The NCO held a hand to stay them, then motioned.

"Shoot them."

All four Tommies leaned past the NCO and around the corner and opened fire. In the chaos, though, Jim couldn't line up a shot. He was sure that none of the others were even aiming. They all ducked back to reload, but Jim heard angry snarls in what he was recognizing as German coming louder and louder over the roar of battle around them, and damn it, why couldn't he load any faster?

They were closing. He could see their shadows against the moonlight. They were here!

There was a loud gasp, then two rifle blasts, and Jim only saw the bloodied end of a bayonet poking around the corner. The Gerry dropped to the ground in front of them, pushed off of the bayonet by a boot, and Hank, following his foot, poked his head around the corner.

"Tinny ear. Are you all right?" He leaned down and held a hand down to Jim and helped him to a stand, as the other Tommies stood next to him. The NCO shoved past, just to clap Hank on the shoulder.

"Well done, mate, well done. Let's move, there can't be many more of them and there'll be another shelling soon." The NCO tromped over the still-twitching body of the German soldier, and Hank drew his pistol, then tilted the barrel down.

"Step past, please." Jim glanced at all the others, and swallowed when he realized what Hank intended to do. He followed the other three, stepping over the German soldier, and only jumped a little when he heard two quick pops behind him. Hank was behind him like a silent shadow only a moment later, and despite the blood spattering Hank's chest and pant legs, Jim felt like twice the man he'd been before he'd arrived.

They jogged down the row, shooting around each corner. Hank had more grenades on him, and each thud as they exploded echoed through the earth and made all of Jim's limbs shake. The NCO expert directed them down the smaller tunnels, clearing out stragglers and those trying to hide. More than once, Jim found himself looking into the face of a man his age, lifting his rifle, and shooting him in the chest before the other had the chance to do the same to him. He had wondered if he'd killed someone before. Tonight, he was sure.

The air was beginning to stink of smoke and grease and shit, an unspeakable stench that Jim couldn't yet name, and it burned in hiss nose. Nausea gurgled up into his throat, but he forced it down. He had no time to be sick. He could hear them behind him. He could hear them coming. He couldn't see them. His ears were ringing.

There was a great flash off of the horizon, and Jim whirled around, awestruck as a volley of shells cut across the night sky. They were coming towards him. Towards them. Everything would be pain and blood and white noise. There was no noise.

No noise but Hank.

"Behind you!"

Jim whipped around to see he'd been surprised, a young man roaring and swinging at him with a knife. He couldn't move, held fast in place as if the shells overhead were sitting on his shoulders. Just as Jim recognized the threat, Hank yanked him back by the shoulders and fired his pistol. Jim only heard the crack of the bullet, as sure as if it had shattered his skull, but blood spattered his cheeks from the entry wound in the German soldier's head. The German soldier's mouth fell open, his maw as hollow as his eyes, his expression bereft, as if in that last instant of life he had, he had become intimately aware of everything he'd lost. Jim remained petrified as the other man collapsed, affixed to the clamor of shells falling in the distance.

Jim could still swear he'd been struck. His awareness constricted only to the explosions that had looked so distant but felt so incredibly, terribly close. He hardly even felt the weight of the corpse on his boots.

"Jim." Hank was shaking him, but he was seeing through them, only seeing white. "Jim, come on, stay with me!" Jim shuddered and snapped to attention. Hank gripped his chin and held it tight, staring him down through his glasses. "Don't let the shells distract you, they're aimed at the support lines now. I need you to get the both of us out of this safely. You said you would keep an eye on me. You and I, we're going to stick together. Can you do that, Jim?"

Hearing his own words back grounded Jim, and he ground his teeth into a grin. "You got it, mate. Someone's got to mind my arse too, eh? There ain't no pretty gals around lookin', so you'll have to do." Before Hank could give a smart reply in return, there was the noise of footsteps and voices, and Jim checked and loaded his rifle. "Mind my back and I'll mind yours, yeah?"

Hank reloaded his pistol and evinced a reassuring smile. "Of course."

Gerry was coming around the corner, but side by side, Jim and Hank pushed through. Soon, Jim realized there was a rhythm to it. Check the corners, clear the path with a grenade, shoot, keep moving. They ground forward like clockwork, their gears clicking in motion through the dance of war. Jim was no longer paying attention to the faces of those falling to his bullets, only that they were dead. Hank kept him wound up, kept him marching forward, kept the rhythm. Shells kept falling overhead, soaring by and crashing somewhere beyond him, but he was here, with Hank, nowhere near them. They were in the rhythm, absorbed in the beat.

Soon, it all slowed, the march slowing to a walk. There was nobody left to kill, and the sky was starting to lighten to a bleak gray. Jim realized he was panting as he and Hank approached where most of the other raiding soldiers had huddled. The NCO raiders were talking, but it was all fuzz to Jim. Hank, still somehow keen, got on tiptoe to listen over the hubbub, then muttered into Jim's ear.

"It seems the enemy's retreated to another section. We've pushed them out a good bit, though, so the night's a success."

"Was it?" Jim didn't feel successful, and he was sure it was showing in the slouch of his spine. Hank, either oblivious or too tired to notice, merely smiled.

"Yes. We pushed them back. It's not about the accomplishments of a single man, it's about the lot of us, and we did well." Hank squeezed his shoulder. "You were brave."

"Brave, huh?" Jim glanced up when he heard a report from the distance, a far-off spattering of bulletfire. Hank, still facing forward, nodded.

"Brave." He moved, and Jim realized the rest of the company was going over the top to return to their trenches. They had claimed it, but they weren't staying. The NCOs had said something about claiming it when the relievers came in from the back of the line, but not them. Hank got up the ledge ahead of him and held a hand down to him, which Jim took, gripped, and used to hoist himself up.

The company began the trod back across the trampled field towards their trenches, albeit in a smaller crowd than that which had left. Hank was glancing around, trying to number just how many were left. Jim was still shaking his head. "I don't get it. I trained for this. I was fucking stellar in training."

"Oh, Jim." Hank sighed and slowed his pace, allowing for the two of them to drop back from the rest. "Nobody can ever be well-trained enough to face their own death, not so swiftly. It is even more difficult for one to become used to killing."

"It ain't that hard. I can pull a trigger and hit a target." Jim crossed his arms, then adjusted his rifle at his hip. "I know I killed a few men." Then, something hit him, and he chuckled. "Damn. Should'a grabbed one'a them helmets, eh?"

Hank was studying him, the way he would a book that had caught him and seized him by the collar, dragging him into the words. Then, choosing his words with the care one would unravel a bandage, he murmured, "I'm not certain there's a place in your life for a souvenir like that."

Jim frowned, and his knuckles tightened around the strap on his rifle. "Don't know what ya mean, mate. You wanna-"

Before Hank could elaborate, there was a shout in French from behind, and he pivoted around to see what remained of the French contingent, hobbling at the back of the return march. Jim turned, too, and saw about five of them, distinct in the pink dawn with their horizon-blue uniforms stained with blood and mud and the burgundy of first light, all gathered around.

"Jesus." Jim's gaze bounced from head to head. Guy had pointed out a few of them, Michil, Hilaire, Albert, but Jim could remember a few names that no longer had a face to which they matched. "That can't be all of them that're left."

"Guillaume," Hank gasped, and Jim noticed, with a sinking sensation through his bowels, that all of them remaining were around the same height. "Guillaume isn't-"

Simon's voice sounded above the others, echoing across the field like the shout of a rooster: "HENRY!"

Hank sped over the the crowd, and Jim followed in stride. The French contingent hadn't moved, all crowded around something, but Hank wheezed a sigh of relief to see Simon was holding Guillaume on the ground, before throwing his rifle into Jim's hand and kneeling down. "Guillaume, what's wrong?"

"Nothing! I'm fine! Tell him to let me up!" Guillaume's voice was cracking, his face red either from struggling with Simon, but from the wetness on his cheeks, then likely something else. He whipped his spine, and Simon growled an order and yanked him down by his shoulders, then lifted his face to Hank's.

" _He is stumbling and shaking, and h_ _is footsteps are bloody._ "

Hank furrowed his brow, his back stiffening, and he motioned over his shoulder. "Jim, hold his legs."

"What is it?" Jim still set the guns down and seized Guillaume's legs. Guillaume groaned.

"This is... this is... _c'est humiliant_! Let me up! I can walk!"

" _Liar,_ " Simon hissed, then glanced up to Hank as he unlaced and pulled off Guillaume's right boot. The stench punched Jim in the gut, and he retched air and spit for lack of food in his belly. The other French soldiers groaned and stepped back, and the British soldiers who'd come close to examine moaned and complained. The newspaper peeled off from around Guy's foot, revealing blackened skin and weeping blisters. Guy flinched, but opened his eyes and pounded a fist on the ground.

"It's just the ink! It comes off!"

"Guy, stop." Hank squeezed the newspaper in his hand, and black water dripped from his fist. _"Is this the blood you saw, Simon?"_

" _Yeah."_ Simon started to loosen his grip, but Hank put a hand on Guy's chest.

"How long have you been in pain?"

Guy spoke so fiercely he seemed to be biting at Hank's arm: "I am not! It does not hurt! I am fine!" His eyes flashed over to Jim, and he added, sotto voce, "Hank, please, if they think I am weak, if they think I am sick, they will send me home, I cannot go home, please say it is nothing and let-"

"This," Hank exhorted, loudly and sharply and with the emphasis of a pound on a drum, "is trench foot." He leaned back and looked at the British soldiers. "This is what happens when one stands in water for hours and days on end. Guillaume's is particularly bad because he has newspapers holding water in his boot. When I warn you, any one of you, to keep your feet dry, then bear this in mind!" He then turned back to Simon. _"His skin is rotting. It could become gangrene unless it is treated. I need –_ Jim, I need bandages."

"Yeah." Jim reached into the aid kit in his front pocket and passed his roll to Hank.

"Please, stop, please, stop," Guy whimpered over and over, but Hank gritted his teeth and clamped the end of the bandage around his foot.

"How childish. Making me speak to you in English so your fellows wouldn't understand. So Simon wouldn't understand." Simon's chin jerked up at the sound of his name, static arcing off of his stare, but Hank merely scowled and wrapped Guy's foot to the toe. "Do you think you are brave for forcing yourself onward? Do you think that it is to be commended, that you are some sort of hero for suffering when you don't have to?" Jim winced, and Guy stifled a choked cry as Hank twisted his ankle around to secure the wrapping. "Stubborn, that's what you are."

"Damn right! But I have to be! For Simon-!" Simon looked down at him as he choked the rest of the words back, then, as if he understood, bent his head down and put his mouth next to Guy's ear.

" _Just stop, for God's sake, quit complaining and let him help!"_

Guy moaned a little, but stilled, and Jim patted his leg as Hank finished and tied the bandage off. The corporal, having noticed that the others had fallen out from behind him, stormed up all growl and grumble, and pushed through the crowd. He seemed ready to start to shout, and Jim could guess why: here they were, fucking around in no man's land, just asking for another shell. However, he stopped cold, pale even in dim first light, when Hank pulled off Guy's left boot. Jim doubled over again, heaving, thinking of earth and sun and everything but the rotten, rancid fumes off of Guy's sock.

"Christ, what the fuck?"

"Trench foot. Corporal, I implore you, the young man could lose both his feet if it's not treated." He glanced back, shifting to make sure the corporal could see the broken, oozing ulcer on the ball of his foot. "We ought warn the men to dry their socks and boots out each night."

"Right. Get him patched up and carry him back before Fritz finds his ballsack and nuts up again. Fellows, with me, step to." He led the other Tommies away, and the few French soldiers, taking a few last regretful looks at Guy, each muttered _"Desole"_ and stepped over, around, and past them. Jim let Guy's right foot down, but kept the bandage off the ground.

"Silly bastard, no wonder you've been in a shit mood." He gave Guy his best and most mischievous grin. "It'd be a shame if we did have to cut these fuckers off – you'd be even shorter."

Guy snickered, and lightly kicked at Jim where his foot hung. "Maybe we ought to cut your foot off, so you don't hit your head on doors."

"'Ey, now, don't you kick at me, you might rip a toe off!" Jim laughed, and Simon, watching him cracked a smirk. Hank was the only one who heard what he said to Guy when he leaned in again:

" _At least you're laughing. That means you're still alive."_

Hank finished bandaging Guy's foot, but massaged it in his hands. "We will need to carry him. _Simon, carry his guns and pack, if you please."_

Simon rolled his eyes. _"Lucky you, you've been dying to be lazy."_ He snatched up Guy's things, as Hank patted Jim's shoulder.

"Can you lift him?"

Jim silently took Guy in, toe to tip. He was still small, not terribly broad, and Simon was balancing his rifle next to his own. The burden of not helping would be heavier. "Mate, I'll fuckin' run with him if you need me to. Get him on my back."

It took some doing, but Hank managed to work Guy up onto Jim's shoulders without getting the bandages dirty, and Guy wrapped his arms tight around his neck and his legs around his waist. The four of them began to journey back towards the trench. "Tinny ear, eh?" Jim winked over his shoulder at Guy, and Guy giggled.

"Yeah. Ah, merci. Thank you." He rubbed his nose into Jim's shoulders and sniffled. "It... it is hard, being weak."

"Yeah." Jim squinted ahead, where Hank and Simon walked a few meters in front of them, talking quietly between themselves. "But at least we got backup."

With the password in mind and one another's backs in mind, either Guy sitting on Jim's, Hank's and Simon's before them, or the many, many backs left facing the sky behind them, they marched on.


	6. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Hank arrive back at camp for some well-deserved downtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize! I forgot to do notes last chapter on what trench foot actually was, to clarify Hank's brief explanation. 
> 
> Trench foot is a condition that is essentially caused by standing in water. It is very much like frostbite, particularly in how it essentially kills the skin. Sores, swelling, and infection are common. The foot may turn red or blue, and as necrosis sets in, an odor of decay may be noted. If left untreated, trench foot may result in fungal infections, which can develop into gangrene, and the foot would have to be amputated. Many soldiers would use whale oil to treat and prevent, as well as soldiers being assigned to check one another's feet (which is mentioned in this chapter).
> 
> This one's just for you AO3 readers: hover your mouse over italicized French for a translation!

**6: Respite**

Guy got to be carried around like so much dead weight as the company on the front line made to move for the back. Even so, Jim couldn't muster a word of complaint for the small man pinned against his back for the entire march in the rotation retreat.

"You're really doin' me a favor, mate - you're lighter than my bloody pack." Jim laughed and jogged a step lighter, pretending his back and legs weren't aching from six hours on the move. He promised himself, a thousand times over, a few more steps, and it'll be meal time. A few more steps, we'll be there. A few more steps, we'll have rest and respite for a few days. Those few steps had added up, especially with Guy weighing him down into the thick, pasty mud under the afternoon cloud cover. Hank and Simon had ended up divvying Jim's pack into and onto their own, but Guy, the poor load, couldn't walk a step until his feet were healing up, Doctor Hank's orders. Guy, for his part, sighed against Jim's neck and wilted a little further.

"I am not surprised. I am practically starved! You must feel every one of my ribs prodding your back."

Jim snorted. "You eat the same slop I do, just as much, and whatever seconds you've begged off of the others. You ain't starvin'."

"I am always starving." Guy pouted, but Jim slapped his thighs where he held him.

"Then how come these're so thick? Honestly, it's like I'm hauling a couple of barrels!" Despite his small frame, Guy was pretty well packed with muscle. Jim wondered if that was why someone that little could be so heavy. Guy, from the way he slouched, had surely asked himself the same question.

"Simon says I am dense," Guy mumbled defensively, then suddenly smirked. "Not as dense as you, of course, but-"

"I'll drop you, y'know. Right on your tailbone!"

Guy blew a raspberry into Jim's ear. "Don't you dare!" Then, he sighed again. "Non, but Simon says I am like a monkey, all muscle, no brain. He says I have an animal appetite, too. When we were young, he scolds me, _'êtes-vous un garçon ou un singe?'_ when I misbehave. But he took care of me even though I was greedy and bad." He paused, pensive. "I do not like to be such trouble for you. Maybe you put me down, see if I can walk." 

"Mate, them feet stay off the dirt 'til Hank says so." He tickled Guy's toe, and Guy squealed with sudden laughter, and implored Jim to stop. Jim noticed Hank and Simon glancing back at him from where they marched with the rest of the pack, and threw him a cheeky grin, hitched Guy up his arms, and pushed himself forward.

The camp at the back of the line wasn't home. Jim had marched to far too many camps for him to consider any one of them home. Still, camp was as good as it was going to get, and when they brooked the last hill and broke through to the camp, it looked like utter paradise. There were tents! Jim liked the thought of having something over his head other than dirt and ass. Plus, he could smell the fires from the Service Division, cooking something or other, and Jim didn't care what it was, it'd likely be hot and he probably wouldn't be shot at while eating it. He broke into a run for all of three steps, before realizing Guy was just too heavy and slowing instead to a reasonably quick trundle for someone carrying his weight. As they got close, however, Jim found that everyone had stopped, and from his place at the back of the company, he could barely hear. Thankfully, once the corporal was done giving directions, Hank turned back towards him.

"We're to sit aside in a quarantined area until we're all checked for lice, stripped, and bathed. They'll give us clean clothes while those we've worn for the past week are boiled clean." He then tilted his bright smile to Guy. "I suppose we ought get Monsieur St. Pierre to the infirmary once he's clean. Hopefully they'll have some mineral oil and the like for your feet."

 _"Dieu merci!"_ Guy moaned and swung his legs. "Any sort of medicine would be good if it would help." 

Hank had finally prodded out of Guy that his feet had been aching for four days, very nearly since they reached the front lines. It had explained his sour mood, if nothing else. Simon, after Hank translated it to him, had slapped Guy across the face, then stormed off to smoke a cigarette. As Guy had complained then, "They would think I was childish if I complained my feet hurt. I thought everyone's feet hurt. When it got bumpy and swollen, I thought that it was because the newspaper had irritated it. I did not know wet socks could do that!"

Nor had Jim. He'd slept barefoot the last night, his socks peeled out across his knees and his boots turned upside down at his back. He also checked his feet over very, very carefully for any spots of black rot or blister. They were a little red and chapped, and that was warning enough. He would make sure his boots were as dry as he could make them before putting them on every morning from here on. Rather, Hank would make sure, because when Hank saw him peeling his socks off, he asked Jim to remind him to do the same when it was his shift to sleep.

"We can be boot buddies," he offered with a glib smile. It had warmed Jim's heart.

Jim carried Guy over to the haystacks and the pile of discarded packs where they were meant to wait in quarantine; still in spitting distance from the tents, the promised food, the rest, but sectioned off lest they bring the plague of the trenches into those already getting their deserved rest. However, one of the Service Division officers trundled over with a whopping big burlap sack, and Jim felt something swell in his chest at the sight of it: he knew the sigil of the Royal Mail.

"Mail call, fellows!" Most of the men cheered and whooped, though Jim heard Simon grumble a disaffected 'feh' into his collar. "Thompson, Berger, Maxwell..." Jim sat back on his hands as he observed each excited man run for his mail, some envelopes, some little parcels, the rare big parcel, as they were each distributed. "Collins, Smith..."

"Ah!" Hank hopped up, smiling, and bounded to join the line. The postman passed him a parcel about the size of a shoebox and an envelope with a smudge of rouge in the near-shape of a woman's lips. Hank, tickled pink to the tips of his ears, hurried back to his place near Jim and tore into the paper of the parcel as if it were Christmas morning. "I hope she did, she promised she would – ah!" Hank found the lid of the box and tore it open, revealing two satchels that smelled of dried wildflowers, some thick socks, a few slim books (which Hank quickly tucked into his pack), and a very small burlap satchel that Hank opened, only to reveal cookies with walnuts pressed into the center of each one. "Oh, she found my recipe book, she did." Hank was all but bouncing in place, happier than a dog who'd caught his tail and too ready to show off his prize. He took up one of the cookies and turned it over, only to reveal that the bottom was burnt. "Just like she always makes them!" He took a bite, grimaced for a split second as his lower teeth got through the bottom, but chewed and swallowed. "Kate promised she'd save her sugar rations to send me a treat, and she did. And potpourri satchels for my shoes, too!" He then tore into the letter, but just as Jim settled back to give him some privacy, he heard his own name being called.

"Shankhill! Two for Shankhill!" Jim frowned and rose to join the line, only to receive a letter in an honor envelope with very familiar handwriting on the front and a small parcel with a little letter tied under the twine, the handwriting upon which was unfamiliar. He trudged back over to rejoin Hank, and opened the letter from John first. A photograph fell out, and Jim grabbed it before it could touch the ground.

"Cor, will ya lookit this?" He nudged Hank's shoulder and tilted the photograph to he could see it: John, handsome and smiling, clearly with his hair freshly cut, with his arm tight around the Laura he'd so enthusiastically written to him about before, her nurse's uniform pristine, her dark hair woven into a loose braid cast over her shoulder. "My brother's a lucky fellow, having his lady love come along with him."

"Yes, indeed." Hank studied the photograph a moment longer, then returned to Kate's letter to him. Jim took up John's letter, as John told him, in vague terms, about their travels, about how good he'd gotten with his gun, and how Laura did her best to take care of him even when he was at the front and she was back on the support lines, and that Cameron had impressed all the top brass. He folded the letter over and tucked it in his pack, and noticed that Hank was on the fifth page. Kate's handwriting was lovely, broad and loopy, and she drew a little flower at the end of some of her words. Jim found himself a bit jealous at Hank, all rapt in her words. John wasn't nearly so wordy.

"St. Simon!" Jim raised his head, as did Simon, and the frowning postal service officer glanced around. "Constantin St. Simon?"

Simon, groaning, rose to a stand and lumbered to the front, only to accept the biggest package that had come out of the pack yet. _"Merde cette femme."   He grumbled as he hauled it back and dropped the package in front of Guy. The thing was broader than Jim's chest and nearly as long as his trunk, and though Jim, intrigued, leaned in, Simon backed away and lit a cigarette, then motioned to Guy. _"Tout à vous."__

 _"Ooh, merci!"_ Guy scooted forward, keeping his wrapped feet up, and tore into the package. Hank glanced up from his letter at Guy's squeal of delight. _"Oh, tatie est le meilleur!"_

 _"Elle vous gâte."_ Simon sucked on his cigarette, but motioned with a wave of his hand. _"Continue."_

A few of the other fellows peered around as Guy unpacked the box, revealing tins of cookies, handsome stationery, bars of sweet-smelling soap, lots of extra socks, and the topper, a box that contained a pair of boots in Guy's size. Not military issue, but close enough to pass. There was a card with Guy's name on it in the center, and Guy flipped it open, and read it aloud: _"Partagez les traite avec vos amis et Constantin. Je vais vous envoyer briller pour vos chaussures prochaine fois."_ Guy's face split to beaming. "Auntie says to share!" He thrust a tin of cookies towards Jim. "Can you hand these out to everyone who didn't get something – Jim, you didn't get anything, here, take this one!"

"Nah, mate, I got a little somethin'." He chuckled and passed the tin to someone behind him, who yanked it from his hand and called some others over, and turned back to his own package. He shook it, then looked at the card, and immediately recognized the loopy script from Hank's letter. He opened the note first.

" _Dearest Mister Shankhill:_

 _Greetings from home! My brother has spoken most fondly of you. I am grateful he has someone with whom he can speak. He informed me that you and your brother are the sole caretakers of your sickly grandmother. I took it upon myself to visit her, as we have much in common now."_ Jim noticed quite a few scratched lines there, and swallowed hard, even as he read what Kate inevitably settled on: _"What a delightful woman, who speaks so highly of your brother. As it is my understanding you have no other surviving family, please accept this as my dearest expression of my well-wishes for your service. I wish you only the very best. Fondly, Kate Collins."_

"Mate, your sister's a peach." Jim opened the package and found a small bag of the walnut cookies (the same kind that Hank had received), two pairs of socks, a kerchief with his initials neatly embroidered into the corner, and a metal lighter. Hank looked over, and gasped.

"She remembered! I told her you might like a lighter. You're right, she really is a wonder." Hank giggled contentedly, and turned over a page. "Ah, she does mention visiting with your grandmother! That must have inspired her to..." Hank trailed off as his focus moved down the page, and his lips pursed. Jim scowled inwardly; what had the lovely Miss Kate written to her brother that she'd scratched off of his page? Hank snapped the paper as he folded it over, eyebrows knit up. "Jim, I must ask-"

"Oi, fellas!" Jim twisted his neck around at the call, and saw one of the other Service Division waving. "I'll take every fellow on my left for the baths. Take your packs and all, follow me!" Jim squinted, and realized that meant him and Hank, and though Guy and Simon were on the line, Guy was engrossed in his package and Simon had found a letter to him from their aunt. He patted Guy's leg as he rose.

"I'm gonna get a shower with Hank. Make sure Simon takes care of you." Jim turned to Simon, who'd lifted his head at the sound of his name, and winked. Simon grunted, and Jim followed Hank and the others off towards the communal bathhouse that had been set up past the kitchens.

Everyone stripped their uniforms off, down to bare skin, but to Jim, the act was peeling off a second skin. The khaki had been so stuck into him he felt not just nude, but incomplete without it. The service workers took everyone's trousers, tunics, socks, and underwear to be steamed, and then they all filed into the bathhouse. It was an array of strung lines and crude plumbing, shower heads lined up over broad tiles with drainage gutters that would drain off into a ditch at the bottom of a hill. It was simple, but it would be enough. Hank tapped his shoulder as they moved through the line, then pressed a dense bar of soap into his hand.

"Kate encouraged me to share one of these with you." He held up a fresh bar, as if proving he still had more for himself, so of course, Jim could have as much as he wanted. "She said she was hearing word from some of those coming home wounded that the trench lice were nasty. If you'd like, I'll check your hair for you."

Hair buddies. Jim smirked. "Only if you let me check yours."

The showers were meant to be shared, but they were all men, after all, and one quickly learned to ignore his sense of modesty after sharing the latrine pit with four fellows who'd all gotten the shits off of the same nasty pot of potato soup. As such Jim didn't much care that he was receiving an obscene view of Hank's pasty, pale, taut buttocks, because Hank had the grace and maturity not to say a word about his nightstick and marbles swinging in the wind. Instead, he waited for Hank to crank on the water, and hurried into the spray.

Good God, he had never thought he'd so relish a shower. Hank, too, sighed relief into the running water as it trailed down the wiry muscles of his chest and back, pooled in the gaps of his collarbone and the divets in his shoulders, and streamed down his legs. The water pooling and draining off under them was dreadful brown, looking filthier than the latrines, even, but as Jim ran the soap up and down his arms, down his belly, and over his legs, it came away cleaner with each rinse. Scrubbing his skin from musty, cracked-leather brown to its usual even, beige and cream tones was a relief he'd never imagined he could find in what had once been merely a fact of his daily routine. As he lathered his hand to wash his hair, Hank caught his wrist.

"May I?"

Jim remembered with a start, and nodded. "Yeah, for sure. Should I, er, get down?"

"If you would take a knee, yes." Jim knelt before Hank, eye-level with his navel, and Hank carded his fingers through the part of his hair. Jim had to catch himself from wincing, but couldn't stop himself from speaking.

"Don't pull it."

"Beg pardon?" Hank paused with his fingers combed through the front of Jim's bangs, and Jim blinked up through the streaming water. He looked so benign from here, and all of Jim's tension got jumbled up at his kind, yet compelling stare.

"Didn't think you would, but, just, er, y'know, gentle. When I had it long, it got, y'know, caught in stuff, and it'd pull, and... it... it hurts, yeah?" He trailed off, his silence as lame as his excuse, but Hank nodded.

"Of course. Only, do hold still." Hank worked his way through, turning his hair over bit by bit. "I want to make certain." Jim tried to look up through the rough crimson strands of his hair as Hank held him still and lifted each layer of hair one by one. He stopped a few times and scrubbed Jim's scalp, but never so hard it hurt, and always with care. Both sides, the back, and along the hairline, and then, he rinsed his hands in the spray. "That's you done. Shall I check your back and the rest of you?"

"If you'd like." Jim was anticipating more touches, his stomach a little shaky as Hank giggled, then ran his fingers down his neck and shoulders. He tipped Jim's head to look behind both ears, then lifted his arms to peer at the patch of hair there. He circled to Jim's back, and Jim jumped when Hank touched the soap to the base of his spine. "Oi, do you mind?!"

"Ah, sorry; I'll warn you next time." Hank ran the soap in circles up the center of his back, then across both sides. Jim had to stifle a shiver as Hank poured handfuls of water down his back to rinse it all off. He couldn't let him see it. He didn't want Hank to know how small he felt, because it wasn't the same kind of small he felt under a falling shell. It was a sensation he couldn't name yet, but as Hank washed the backs of his thighs, one possibility came to him: vulnerable.

He exhaled slowly as he felt Hank ease back, and rose to a stand, as if to remind himself that Hank was still a hair shorter than him and noticeably slighter. Besides that, despite his nerves, Hank had his back. In the most literal sense. He shook off his shakes and grinned. "Right, then, mate, how's about I give you the once-over?"

Hank got onto both knees, camel-style, and perched his hands on his thighs. Jim bent over and worked his fingers into Hank's slick hair, darker than the burnt coffee he'd chugged at reveille and softer than the grass they'd slept on. Hank closed his eyes, and Jim thought he heard him hum and mutter something. He didn't ask, even as Hank bent his head to let Jim see the back of his hair. Jim tousled his way through Hank's hair, and Hank giggled again as Jim worked his way through the little groove at the nape of his neck.

"What'm I looking for?"

"Nits, mostly. The soap should clear away any actual lice. Look for little lumps near the scalp, and scrub them out if you see them."

"Aye." Jim wasn't seeing any, though he searched through Hank's hair piece by piece. Hank leaned against his palm, seeming to drowse, and Jim couldn't help an appreciative chuckle. "You worn out from the walk, eh? Don't fall asleep on me here."

"Sorry. Will you wash my back, when you're done?"

"You got it." Jim rubbed the soap down the part in Hank's hair for good measure, scrubbed the lather out, and helped him to a stand. He moved around to Hank's back and started to clean from the top, scrubbing in circles down. Hank hummed again, soft, little, happy noises, and Jim realized he'd never seen Hank so relaxed. "I think we both needed the break."

"Yes, I think so." His back slumped as Jim pushed the running water down it, then skidded around on the damp tile to crank the shower off. "But let's let some others enjoy the same. We're not the only ones who've spent the past days mired in filth."

Jim found himself watching the last of the water drip off of Hank's thighs and sex, and quickly nodded and set himself to rights, eyes forward, and accepted the thin towel Hank passed to him from the edge of the showers.

They were allowed to wear their civvies until their uniforms got back from the cleaners, so Jim dug his denims and a plain shirt from deep in his pack. The sun was warm, bathing them in comfort as the cold from the water drying off their skin ebbed out. The air was fresh and clear, though thick with the steam from the cleaners and coming off of the showers. The chilling water dried out of his hair into the afternoon sun, and he set his shoulders back, closed his eyes, and shook the short strands just to feel the last of it run down his neck. "This is good," he muttered, and Hank, dressing nearby, murmured indistinct agreement.

"You forget what simple pleasures are after going through the wringer like so–"

The air was cut by a shout and the sounds of a scuffle, and as if summoned by calamity, every man dropped what he was doing and rushed towards the noise. Jim had barely gotten his denims buttoned and still had his shirt slung over his shoulder, but he was dashing back towards the showers. Some of the sheets were rattling, and the distinct impacts and strangled cries from a fight sounded from within, behind a bevy of men all gathered up to see what had happened. Hank, when they got close, quickly moved to push through.

"That sounds like Simon!"

Jim took the lead and plowed through the crowd with Hank close behind, and they tore into the stall together. The showerhead was running, and Simon, naked and already wet in the spray, was swinging at a naked Tommy. He was apoplectic, purple in the face, eyes bulging and flecks of spit flying from his lips as he rapidly swore the man down.

_ "Ne me touchez pas! Personne ne me touche! Je ne suis pas quelque enfant à être utilisé!"  _

"Simon!" Hank stepped forward and seized his arms, and Simon took a swing at him. Jim caught it, but he noticed something he hadn't had a chance to see before: Simon. He'd never seen Simon out of uniform, or if he had, never this close or clearly. Simon was covered in scars, from a huge burn scar shaped like Brazil down his side to jagged lines on his chest, back, and forearms that had likely once been deep gashes. He looked like he'd been through a meat grinder. Something Guy had said flashed into his mind: Simon had been in a workhouse until he was taken in by a priest. Jim knew about workhouses. He knew they weren't good places, and some were likely much, much worse than others.

Hank, too, must have had the same thought that Jim had. " _Simon, on ne va pas te faire de mal. Nous sommes vos amis._ Jim, can you get this fellow back? He's given the man a fright." 

"Gave him a fright?!" The Tommy Simon had been fighting, who Jim didn't know by name or face, sputtered indignantly and slipped back on the tile. "I just told the sonofabitch to get down so I could check him for bugs!"

"Get down? On his knees?" Jim spun around and advanced on the Tommy. His height gave him the advantage, and the Tommy stumbled a step back. Simon was beyond speech, hissing and spitting and straining to get past Hank, as Hank spoke into his ear in the soft, soothing tones one might use towards a feral cat:

_ "Il est bien, personne ne pourra vous nuire. Tu sais qui je suis. Personne ne cherche à vous faire du mal, Simon..."  _

The Tommy just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, on his knees, how else'm I supposed to see? I tried to push him when he didn't move, and he just flew at me!"

Jim groaned, and glanced back to Simon, who still lunged at the Tommy around Hank's arms. Then, he crossed his arms and planted himself between Simon and Hank and the other Tommy. "He didn't know what you were doing."

"I told the bloody frog what I was doing, I told him I was just checkin' him for bugs!"

"The bloody frog no par-lay English! He didn't understand you, and fuck, what would you think if some fellow barges up to you naked, spouts gibberish at you, and tries to make you get down on your knees?!"

"CONSTANTIN!" The curtain flew open before the Tommy could fire back a retort, and Guy staggered in, shaking on his feet. Simon's focus snapped to him in an instant, and though he tried to make his words come sharp, he fumbled every one and let them fall uselessly from his mouth:

_ "Vous... n'êtes pas... censé marcher..."  _

_"Tout va bien, je suis ici, je ne laisserai personne vous toucher."_ Guy stumbled past Hank and into Simon's chest, and Hank backed off to give them space. Something broke in Simon when Guy hugged onto him, and his back slumped and knees buckled all at once. He crumpled like shattered glass, once so rigid and unyielding, but now formless, shapeless, a pile of fragments and jagged edges that Guy could only hope to put back together. Guy shushed Simon and clung to him, not caring that his clothes were soaking through, nor that Simon was slumped heavy against him. He tilted his head to the side. "What happened?"

"Louse check gone bad." Jim nodded towards the Tommy. Guy nodded, but his gaze dropped away.

"Please make him leave. Simon cannot be around others like this." He caught Hank's eye and bit his lip, before speaking again. "It is not a disease, it is a panic, and he cannot control what he does when he gets upset. We do not tell the officers, because we are afraid they will tell us, if he is so sick, he should be in hospital, and I cannot let him be sent away..." Simon put his hand on Guy's back, and Guy fell quiet. "I must help calm him down. He knows me."

The Tommy chose this moment to speak up: "Someone ought tell his division corporal he's gone bonkers."

Hank and Jim both answered, Hank with a groan, and Jim with an edge in his tones: "There isn't a French corporal any more."

"There ain't a French corporal no more." Then, Jim caught the Tommy by the arm.

"You need to get; we ain't gonna be able to handle him if we can't calm him down, and you're the one what got him all jumped up." He frog-marched the Tommy out and shoved him out through the curtain, and trudged back in, the bottom of his denims sopping. Guy was drenched by now, still dressed in his uniform but unbuttoning his tunic.

 _"Tu vois? Nous nous baignons ensemble. Nous sommes des soldats ensemble, donc nous nous lavons ensemble. Je veux vérifier vos cheveux pour les poux. Puis-je voir vos cheveux?"_ Simon nodded soundlessly, and bent his head forward towards Guy. Guy removed his tunic completely, then gently ruffled the damp threads of Simon's hair and gingerly sorted through it. Simon sighed, a mix of emotions packed into a single, forlorn sound. Discomfort set in, and all of Jim's joints suddenly felt itchy. Something told him he should leave, that he was intruding on a private moment. He moved for the curtain, but Hank caught his arm.

"Stay; he knows you. If anyone else tries to interrupt them, I think we should be here to run interference." Hank's face was set, and Jim didn't dare argue. Not when he was right.

"Yeah." He threw his shirt on, keeping well out of the water, and faced the outside. He heard the other soldiers dispersing, figuring out that the excitement was over, and trundling away in every direction. Some of them were muttering his name, and some were laughing. Jim tried not to care. He stood attention at the edge of the shower floor, the water just touching his feet as Guy, almost completely in Simon's lap, washed his hair with the care someone much more light-handed than Guy might afford a fragile piece of crystal. He whispered words that Jim couldn't understand except in that they were soothing. Simon kept his face bowed and his mouth shut; Jim only heard his sharp breathing. Before Guy could finish, Simon lifted a trembling hand to his head.

"Simon?"

Simon didn't answer him, but instead, carded his knobby, crooked fingers into his hair and swept it all back, and spoke so gently, as if he had a smile bubbling under his surface, that Jim thought Simon had briefly become someone else. _"Donc, beaucoup d'histoires juste pour chercher des poux. Tenir bon. Votre tour."_

Guy giggled and slid to sit on the floor. __

Simon cracked a smile as he checked Guy's hair. That simple change in demeanor washed an ache from Jim's chest that had knotted there without him even noticing. Hank fetched a towel for Simon and held it until Simon finished, eased Guy back, and rose, at which point Simon promptly snapped it out of his hands and quickly toweled his hair, then wrapped it around as much of his disfigured body as he could. _"Ses pieds sont trempés."_

 _"Je vais l'emmener à l'infirmerie. S'il vous plaît aller chercher vos vêtements."_ Hank gestured, and Simon stormed off with a grunt, back to his usual terse, tightly-wound self.

And yet, Jim couldn't even call him an asshole. Not now that he had an inkling of what Simon was trying to pin down inside. The poor bastard couldn't even enjoy a shower. Jim knew he'd never take such comfort for granted.

* * *

Dinner was hot and entirely edible, for the first time in days. There was actual meat and warm, fresh bread, and a mountain of carrots that hadn't been ruined by travel through mud. Jim ate his entire portion embarrassingly quickly, leaving no time for idle chit-chat. He wasn't in a mood for talking anyway, and could hardly even enjoy the meal. Not when he saw Simon with his hands and legs bound to a post on the other end of the pitch.

The Tommy that had surprised Simon had gone to Corporal Bradley, who confronted Simon about attacking a fellow soldier. Guy had intervened and explained the circumstances: that Simon had thought the other man was trying to harm him, and because of the language barrier, he had no way of being reassured otherwise. The corporal still had to punish Simon, so Field Punishment Number One it was. Bound to the post, but only for three days, a small mercy, and only an hour at sunup and sundown each, but Jim was still steamed that he was being punished at all.

"You should not complain," Guy had told him, and though Hank was gripping his jaw to clamp down on his agony, he nodded.

"It'd be insubordination to question the Corporal's orders." He was so unbearably calm that paradoxically, it made the flame in Jim's belly hotter, perhaps to compensate. Still, Hank jabbed at a stray potato on his plate with aggression that matched that which Jim was trying to hold back. "We'd be properly court-martialed."

"Besides," Guy had added at Jim's still-sour expression, "Simon said he understands and does not mind. He expects he will be left alone, and he says he will be happy to have some quiet."

It still would have put Jim off of his feed, were he not ravenous from the day. Guy, with his feet dosed with mineral oil and all wrapped up in fresh bandages and safely tucked in his new boots, could make conversation with Hank even with his mouth full, and that left Jim to stroll down the row and stretch his legs before it was time to rest. Simon whistled to him as he passed the post, and Jim glanced over to him.

"Cigarette?" Simon raised an eyebrow, unable to gesture otherwise. Jim rolled his eyes; at least they had the one word in common. He trudged over to the post, put a cigarette in Simon's mouth, and lit it up.

"Ain't gonna hold it for you." He stepped away, but to Jim's surprise, Simon rolled the smoke to the other side of his mouth, inhaled, and exhaled smoke without dropping it.

"Merci." Then, he jerked his head. "Shoo."

Jim chuckled a bit as he turned his back, reassured that Simon would be alright, and left him to enjoy the quiet. He could understand, too; the front lines had been so very loud. Jim didn't mind loud most times, like when the pub got noisy, the music got saucy, or the boys got rowdy, but the noise of gunfire was different. Not even a bad different, but it was impossible to rest when his heart was always pounding.

Even here, even now, he was struggling to relax. Perhaps it was knowing that tomorrow, his uniform would be dry, and it'd be back to drilling and work, but he'd long since accepted that. At home, he could recover from a foul day or week with something as simple as a cigarette and a night playing poker, even if he knew the next day would be difficult too. This, though, there was no relaxing here.

Thoughts of home crept back in as he wandered to the tent he was sharing with Hank. He found himself fishing in his bag for Kate's letter and the little bag of burnt cookies she'd sent, and read her words again, then tried to squint through what she had etched out. He held it up to the little kerosene lamp in hopes he could make out what she hadn't wanted to say, but before he could make out very much, the tent opened again, and Hank, hunched over, crawled in.

"Ah. Good evening." He straightened himself as best as he could, smiling and pushing a few stray locks of his hair from his forehead. He settled in, his gaze moving back to Jim as he eased himself down onto his cot and found his cookies in his pack. He fixed his focus to Jim, clearly weighing something, before carefully stating, "It really is the small things, isn't it? The little comforts of home."

Jim mused on how content Simon had been with his cigarette and solitude, and realized Hank perhaps wouldn't want to talk about him. "Yeah. Hearing from John, and all, plus your sister. It was real nice of her to write. You put her up to it?"

"Ah, dear." From Hank's quick smile and faster response, it seemed this was an agreeable topic. "I couldn't put my dear sister up to anything she didn't want to do. I love her dearly, but she's headstrong. She decided on her own to write to you, likely after I wrote to her of you. Nothing but nice things, of course." He smothered a giggle into his palm, but Jim furrowed his brow and looked at the cookies Hank had brought out.

"She's a real nice gal, she is. The cookies, though." Jim found the little parcel of cookies and held them up. "Er, they're a sweet gesture, but..." Jim eased one into his mouth and tried to bite, but it was rock hard. Hank giggled again.

"Ah, yes. Er, I was the cook between us. Kate managed the finances of our household and held the reins of what remained of Father's holdings. I technically inherited the business, but I've no interest, and we promptly disbursed as much responsibility as we could. I'm partner in name only, and Kate handles any business from behind my name, and openly now that I'm away. Amazing lass, really; she teaches, she handles numbers, she can write a scathing letter and get her way if the need arises, there's little she can't do. Cookies, however..." Hank smothered a laugh. "She tries so dearly, but she simply can't."

"You're telling me," Jim chuckled, and tried to bite through again. He managed it, but it was as good as eating brick once he got into his teeth. "Christ, that's..."

"I don't even care, you know." Hank's eyes were lidded as he gazed reverently at his pack of cookies. "I don't care that they're nigh inedible. They're hers. They smell like her cookies, and they taste like it, and they're dreadful and they're hers." He heaved a withering sigh as if to hold it in a moment longer would have been to suffocate himself, and dug into his pack again. "I must write her and thank her."

"Yeah." Jim grabbed some of the stationery Kate had sent him. "You got a pen, mate?"

Hank did (as prepared as he was, he had six), and he passed one to Jim and settled on his cot with his paper on his knees. Jim struggled for words for a moment, then decided to be as honest as he could:

_"Dear Ms. Collins:_

_Thanks for your letter and parcel. Much appreciated. I hope Nan is well. Check on her if you can. She's likely lonesome without John and I around. Most kind of you to think of me. Don't worry for Hank. He's very good and very well and I'm keeping an eye on him."_

Jim paused to glance over his shoulder to the other cot, where Hank contently scribbled away with his . His handwriting was the same as hers, loopy, pretty, and elegant, but there were no flowers for punctuation. Jim's handwriting looked like sticks jabbed into the mud and held in place only with crossed fingers and what little the earth could give to grab them back. He hoped she could stand to read it.

_"Your brother is most helpful to me. It is nice for me to have a friend like him. Today, we are at rest in camp. I will enjoy your cookies after exercises tomorrow. Hank shared his soap today. It was very nice. We had a friend get sick from the water in his boots_

Jim scratched that out; it would likely be censored, and he didn't want his letter thrown out.

_"I got a few scratches, but it's healing. Hank has been fine. He's a very good soldier. I was worried about him, but he's surprised me. You should be proud of him. Thank you for writing. Will write again. Yours, Jim Shankhill."_

He tucked the letter into an honor envelope, one that he knew would be opened by someone above him in the ranks to ensure he hadn't divulged anything sensitive. He'd write to John tomorrow, but his eyes were getting weary from squinting through the lamplight illuminating the tent and reflecting off of Hank's spectacles. He stretched his legs out across his cot and groaned with relief. "You almost through, mate?"

"Mhm." Hank ran his eyes over the page, then set it aside. "I'll read it over again in the morning, though." He twisted around to face Jim, the heel of his palm balanced on the edge of his cot. "Before we go to sleep, though, I have one more thing for you." He beckoned Jim, and Jim scooted forward as if gathering around a rocking chair with the promise of a good story. Hank put a finger to his lips, then turned and fished into his pack again. "I didn't want to give this to you in front of anyone else. Contraband."

"Is it now?" Jim chuckled, and wiggled his shoulders eagerly. "What ya got, mate?"

Hank smiled and held closed hand out. Jim opened his palm to accept, and Hank, as proud as a hawk that had snatched the eye out of a rabbit for its master, reached behind him and set a dagger into Jim's open hand. "A trench knife."

Jim gawked and turned it over in his hand. It was heavy, solid steel, as long as his hand from the tip of his middle finger to just below his wrist, then a wooden grip shaped for a clenched hand, narrow and pointed at the end, and its thin edge caught the orange light from their lamp and reflected it on the canvas of the tent in a jagged trapezoid. "Mate, where did you-"

"I took it up off of someone else. Someone who would no longer need it." Hank ran his thumb along the bright silver line where the light hit the bevel. "Usually, these are only good for stabbing, perfect for the close quarters of a trench raid, but the owner of this one sharpened an edge." He showed his thumb to Jim and the thin red line across the pad. Jim gaped, and quickly stuffed the thing away.

"Good God, mate. That's right gorgeous, that is. Thank you." He secured it in his pack, under Kate's cookies, under the letter from John, somewhere he wouldn't lose it. Hank hummed, looking all too proud of himself.

"In case you ever need it. Keep it on your belt when we get back to the front lines." He patted Jim's forearm, and that simple gesture sent heat shooting through Jim, until it set in his chest and made his whole face feel like it might split from smiling.

How fortunate he had been to make such a good friend.

And yet, in the night, with the lantern out and the pair of them stripped to their skivvies, Jim found his eyes could not close. Not even with Hank at his side nor the promise of rest and respite.

If he dared, all he saw was white light, and the scent of the tent, human musk and soap, was replaced with shit and sulfur. Jim heard bullets ringing in his ear every time he tried to dream. Beside him, Hank moaned and mumbled, then trembled, then convulsed, but Jim pinned himself to his cot and waited it out until the striking black and white horrors that haunted his eyelids faded to gray.

Even so far away, he was still there. He wasn't sure he could ever come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on trench knives: While some were officially issued to soldiers who regularly performed trench raids, some soldiers would fashion their own using grips and railroad spikes. Their size and potency made them ideal for close range fighting. It is not unfathomable that a soldier might customize his dagger to have an edge, as they would have many, many other valuable uses in the trench.
> 
> While showers were not available on the front lines, they were an important part of service. Showers like what I have described (though I was not able to find many details) were set up at the back of the line. Soldiers would be paired off to check one another for lice. In addition to the importance of hygiene, however, showers were vital to morale. In the modern era, we may take for granted just how nice it is to be clean compared to how unpleasant it can be to be filthy.


	7. On The Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battalion travels North to an unknown destination, with no idea what lies ahead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay! Too many active stories, not enough time.
> 
> Remember, you can hover your mouse over the French text in italics for a translation!

**7: On The Move**

Like battles had a rhythm, so, too, did the days of service. Usually, it would be four days at the front, four days at the back, and four days on support. The riskiest days were the ones spent moving, and the worst nights were those on the front. Still, Jim leaned into the routine, the hours spent digging or replacing barbed wire, of filling and moving sandbags, stand-to and the morning hate of shouting and shooting across the vast expanse between them and the Gerries, and restless sleep in shifts while the raid could come at any second.

Luckily, there was company. Guy had recovered from his trench foot, and without constant pain pricking the soles of his feet, he had become much cheerier, whistling tunes that Jim sometimes recognized from his guard post and quietly singing as he hauled sandbags. Simon was stoic and quiet, but for the occasional outburst at Guy, and though the language barrier was still a problem when Jim was trying to shout for him to bring another shovel, he couldn't complain of him. Hank was ever his delightful self, dependable, patching up anyone who was injured and digging dutifully at Jim's side.

They hadn't faced any major operations since Arras, but they'd been on the move. PBI like them didn't get to know where they were going, but Jim could tell that they were moving North. He often ended up marching at Hank's side, out of habit as much as anything else. Even if they had no clue of their destination, it felt good to be moving.

"If we're marching, I feel like we're getting somewhere." Hank subtly shifted his rifle against his shoulder, and Jim grunted.

"Yeah, I get restless if we sit in one spot for long." Jim glanced back at the rows and rows lined up behind them. He was sure he wasn't the only one who thought so. The morning hate was sometimes the only action they saw in a day - pathetic, for a load of boys who'd signed up to be heroes. "Ain't got the foggiest clue where, of course."

Hank swallowed and glanced around, then pulled his canteen from his pocket and brought it to his lips. "I can guess."

"Shit, can you?" Jim dropped into a whisper and leaned in, as if to share the canteen and not just gossip. "What ya got?"

"We've been moving steadily North, yes?" Hank nodded towards the sun, still rising towards high noon from their right hand side.

"Yeah. But what's that mean?" Jim tucked his canteen away and licked his lips. He was still parched, but nobody wanted to be the idiot who stepped out of line for a piss at the wrong time. Hank, meanwhile, was already analyzing. Jim could feel thoughts buzzing through his helmet.

"Belgium. We seem to be headed for Belgium. I heard through gossip that there's a major conflict in Ypres."

"No shit." Jim grinned to himself. He couldn't help it. As dangerous as the front lines of a skirmish were, he loved the thrill.

"Except I'm not certain we're heading there." Hank rubbed his chin as he thought, and Jim found his grin had wiped away.

"No?"

"No, we'd want to be heading slightly more east." Jim felt a chill as Hank's brow furrowed in thought, because he hadn't realized that. Hank surely had the map memorized, bright soul he was. "We're headed north-by-northwest, and slightly north of that. We're headed for the Brittany shoreline."

"You don't think they're sending us home, do you?"

"No. I also am aware that we're moving covertly. I've seen no sign that the Engineer Corps is doing any work in creating railways. Whatever we're doing is likely on the hush." Hank heaved a nervous sigh, and lowered his voice further. "As little as I relish the thought of further conflict, I loathe not know where we're going. I've been piecing as much as I can together, but we've all of us got blinders on."

"It's our job, though, innit?" Jim grimaced and glanced around at the rest of the soldier. He knew he and Hank weren't the only ones whispering as they walked. "We go where we're told, we do what we're told."

"So it is." Hank sighed and adjusted his rifle. "Truth be told, I wish my father had been of the peerage and forced me into military school. At least then, I'd be able to see the maps and pathways, and understand. I do so much better at things when I understand."

Jim guffawed. "Really?" He shook his head. "Mate, I've seen you in the trenches. Like a mad bull, you are, utterly unstoppable. Unflappable, that's the word."

Hank smiled, though he didn't lift his eyes from the dirt under his boots. "Charging at the nearest sign of danger. It's what any animal would do. Imagine what I'd be like if you gave me a target to aim for. It's a comparison of the soaring bullet, the kind that crashes where it's aimed and blows out everything in its wake, and the shot pellet, striking at everything all at once but spreading its efforts so that it never gets too deep."

"You need something to aim for." Jim nodded again. He understood that sentiment. Hank's chin dropped even further.

"I do. Something closer than merely survival."

Jim hadn't thought of it like that. "Ain't the point of it just to fight and win? For country, and all?"

"Who won at our last battlefield?"

Jim missed a step. "Er." He scratched his head. "Well, we're alive, ain't we? And we got where we needed to be, didn't we?"

Hank, his face still low, spoke as if he hadn't heard Jim. "What is winning, anyway? No flags were lowered, neither army stood down. We merely pushed through their line, only to find another line. In days of yore, a war was won when one side stopped moving and was consumed. Simpler times. With trenches and reinforcements and rotations spinning us in circles, it'll never be so simple."

"Hank." Jim elbowed him. "We won the day because we got through. C'mon, show me some backbone."

Hank laughed humorlessly, but lifted his face. "Survival. Like I said."

Sometimes, Jim couldn't help but agree. Still, he would count it as a win, and simply push the argument no further. "So you just want to know what it is we're actually doing?"

"Always."

"We're marching, mate." Jim jostled his elbow and bounded a step faster, just so he could turn and look him in the eyes. "Sometimes, you just got to be in the here and now, y'know?"

This earned a giggle, and Hank touched his hand to his lips to button it up. "I suppose so."

The walk was long, mindless, a great distance for one with nothing to think about but what the next day might bring. They would stop every few hours for a meal, a piss break, and at night, they slept in slapdash tents and swaddled in their civvies, their rifles ever at their sides. Jim found himself unable to sleep that night, like he was coming to find many nights, and wound up pulling out the pistol Simon had swapped for his own.

St. Etienne. Jim wasn't a praying man, and he had no interest in a Saint at his side. He'd rather the neat, slick Smith & Wesson Simon had swiped, like the one Hank had. He hadn't yet had much opportunity to confront the bastard about it, but even then, what was he going to say? Nothing Simon would understand, likely. He didn't even seem to be trying to learn more English than enough to ask for a cigarette. He kept resolving to ask Guy to ask Simon, but there never seemed to be a good time when there wasn't someone else listening. The last thing he wanted was to get Simon in trouble again. He was a prat, but Guy cared for him, and really, Jim could admit that he admired how cool Simon seemed to stay when things were going bad. It wasn't every man who could take a bullet to the leg and keep his head on straight enough to notice that the pistol of the man on his left was nicer than his own.

He marched on, trying only to think of their destination. Otherwise, he might keep thinking down those lines. About why he was the one who panicked. Why he was thinking of complaining about his aching feet, but didn't because he would be the only one, the nail sticking out to be hammered down.

* * *

**8 JULY 1917**

**60 KM SOUTH OF NIEUPORT, BELGIUM**

Days of marching led them through the ragged remnants of battles past, a countryside ravaged by deep trenches and dilapidated rings of barbed wire. The wind whipped the moor, and it howled through the uneven dirt and the abandoned structures, the breached pillboxes, the tattered flags that still remained. The company skirted gingerly around the outsides of what had been major lines, where the ground was tamped down by the hundreds of boots that had passed over before them. There was still the now-familiar scent of war lingering in the air, hung there like so many nooses on a witching tree: clear evidence of what had come to pass here.

Guy shivered as they passed the carcass of a horse, mostly bone now, and muttered what sounded like dejected mourning under his breath. Simon lit another cigarette and growled to him, _"Si cela vous fait peur, arrêter de regarder eux. Faire face."_  

" _Faire face_ ," Guy repeated, and tried to keep his head up. He and Simon were walking in the same row as Hank and Jim today, with what remained of the French contingent scattered nearby. The other Tommies gave the French soldiers berth, which was fine by Jim. Out here, he felt safest when he was next to Hank, and not worried about Christopher or Ben or whoever else happened to be around. He had a feeling Guy felt the same with Simon. He'd not yet seen the pair of them in action, but they were never far from one another, despite Simon's choleric attitude. Jim couldn't tell what Simon was trying to say to Guy, but it wasn't bringing back Guy's bright smile.

"Hey, little man, what's got you low?" Jim nudged him with his elbow, and Guy crossed his arms and scoffed.

"Nothing!" He turned his nose up, but Jim elbowed him again.

"Come off it, mate. You can tell me."

Hank glanced over, but turned when Guy bit his lip and Jim leaned down to listen. "The horses. It is so unfair." Simon made an inquiring noise, and Guy scowled and bitterly muttered, " _Ce n'est rien._ " 

"Unfair? What d'you mean?" Jim frowned and glanced over at one of the gaping ribcages left over from the cavalry. He wondered what it took to take down a horse. He could only imagine the dreadful sound. Guy, however, crossed his arms.

"The horses did not ask for this. The horses do not even know what is happening. Only that they die, and in pain. They are only animals."

"Ah." Jim glanced at the animal's remains again, but saw no sign of the rider. He'd likely either crawled away or had to be dragged out later. "I suppose I see what you mean." He broadly swung his arm over his shoulder and hooked him in. "But hey, they're in a better place, y'know?"

"Oui," Guy muttered. "Not here." He shook Jim off and stepped a little closer to Simon, and Jim snorted and faced Hank.

"So, what'd you rather, mate? Wipers or something else?"

"Wipers?" Hank raised an eyebrow, but quickly turned away, twisting his neck left and right. "Do you mean Ypres?"

"Ain't that what I said?" Jim squinted as they broke from tree cover into sun for a moment, then relaxed as they ducked into the shade again. They were leaving the field behind and ducking into a path beaten through a thick, dense copse of aspen trees. The path was close, and Hank and Jim had unconsciously moved shoulder to shoulder as they descended into the shade. "Wipers."

"Ypres," Hank repeated. "Mind your step." He skirted around a pothole, and Jim glanced down to peek at it. It looked like something had been driven in deep, like a fence post, and the crumbled bits of log scattered around under their feet in splinters. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim could see other detritus of battle, spent machine gun rounds littered along the gutters, bits of flag, part of a boot, a spatter of dried blood along the bank. Jim could only guess that this path had been hard fought, and he couldn't tell who'd been going which direction. Still, he forced his eyes forward, then smirked at Hank.

"S'what I said, mate. Wipers."

"Ypres. Ee-press."

"Wipers." Jim hopped over another bump in the road. Someone had started to dig in a low trench, but had obviously had to stop midway for one reason or another.

"You're teasing me now." Hank crossed his arms, but Jim laughed and jostled his arm.

"Ee-pres. You're the one what par-lay Fran-say between us." He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and kicked his legs out. He didn't think the corporal would see him walking out of perfect formation. "Still, y'think we're goin'?"

"No. I don't." Hank pursed his lips and glanced around. "If you'll look." He gestured at the scattered detritus of battle. "The fighting on this path was recent. The field behind us was fought some time ago, but this was recent. I think we're heading to wherever the line here was pushed." He tilted his gaze around them, as the trees swished and swayed. "We're following in someone else's tracks, and we're not moving towards Ypres at all. We're likely following up on whatever came through here before us." He sucked in air and exhaled a thick, heavy sigh. "I essentially know nil further than that, and I can't confirm what I have deduced."

"So, we ain't goin' to where the fighting is." Jim stuffed his hands in his pockets, but Hank shook his head.

"We wouldn't be sent somewhere there was no fighting to be done. My concern is that I know nothing about it. I've heard nothing. It must be some plot by the higher-ups, or they're anticipating something big." Hank took yet another ungainly step over a fallen branch, then hopped a step to keep from disrupting the line. "Not knowing is terribly frightening. It's like peering into an unlit night, for nothing is more frightening than the dark."

Jim heard the trees around him rustle, and wrenched his neck around. "Yeah?" The path was getting narrower, and the men were bunching up more and more. Guy was all but under Simon's arm now, still talking to him in quiet French as Simon growled his responses and tried to shoo him off. The normalcy of the march was shadowed by the thickening patches of leaves, making the mud on the path nearly black. "I stopped being afraid of the dark when I was a lad, mate."

"It's not the dark itself that is frightening. Let me correct myself." Hank cleared his throat, but lowered his voice. "It's what we cannot see. One cannot lift a shield against a blade he can't see."

A chill wind rattled through Jim's bones, and he found himself whipping his neck around, left and right. Something felt wrong, but he couldn't place it. "Suppose that makes sense, but what're we supposed to do?"

"As soldiers? We keep marching forward." Hank tipped his helmet down his forehead. "As men? Pray."

Jim faintly realized what was driving his heartbeat faster, why panic was singing under the ache in his muscles and reverberating through his bones: the smell. "Mate, wait. Do you smell flowers?"

There was an impact somewhere ahead of them, harmonized with shouts and cries, and then whooping and coughing erupted in front of them. Jim's heartrate spiked, because he could just scent something foul over the perfume in the air. "Gas!" He scrambled for his pack and yanked out his gas mask, thanking his stars it hadn't been nicked. He kept working at strapping it on, but shouted again, "Gas! Gas! Masks on!"

" _Le chlore! Masques!_ " Hank added, too frantic for proper grammar, but all the French soldiers were already following suit with the other soldiers around them, strapping their gas masks on, ducking down onto their fronts, fetching out their rifles. 

Jim could see it now past the yellowed glass of his mask's goggles, a massive greenish cloud rolling towards them and a silhouette play of agony unfurling behind the veil. The men at the epicenter were just visible through the greenish gloom, collapsed, coughing, retching, drowning in their own bile and beyond help. Jim had read about the gas attacks, heard of them in training. He never thought he'd watch a man vomit his own organs. Someone was striking a bell, an empty shell, to alert the back of the line to what was coming, but as the man spending his last seconds of life warning the others of impending doom withered and slowed, a voice cut through to Jim's ears:

"It's cracked!" Hank was scrabbling with his mask, the tube where it hooked to the small box, the straps, and gasped. "It's broken. It's -" He tried to gesture, then sucked in a deep breath. Jim had gotten the message and spotted a nasty crack in the tube.

The filter in the mask wouldn't cut it, not without the box. Hank was about to breathe raw chlorine.

"Urea," Hank choked as he tried to hold the tear shut, gesturing, and in an instant, Jim knew what to do.

He remembered training. He remembered the drills. He remembered the emergency procedure. He yanked the bandages from his side pocket, unzipped his trousers, and pissed on them.

Simon was shouting at him, Guy, panicking. Hank, however, was holding his breath with tears in his eyes, and when Jim wrapped the wet bandages around the tube, it was to a gasp of relief. Hank promptly coughed at the odor, but Jim patted his shoulder, then brought him close.

"Breathe, mate, breathe. I know it's rancid, but it's as good air as you're going to get."

Hank panted, slumping against Jim, but rasped a hoarse "Thank you." There was a bark from behind them to prepare to take the enemy, and the men all formed lines where they crouched on the ground, got their rifles in front of them, and pointed over the shoulders of the men laid out in front of them. The enemy was coming, but Jim couldn't see them and he wasn't going to waste shot on shadows. Under the noise, Hank whispered, "I can't say you're not resourceful. Seems even _that_ has a use."

Guy snickered, and though Simon jabbed him with his elbow and whispered a warning, Jim smirked, looked past the bodies collapsed on the ground, and lined his sights up with whatever was coming next. "I'll make certain I've got plenty for you next time."

"That is disgusting!" Guy laughed into his mask. "Stop making me laugh! I don't want to knock my mask loose!"

"Ask Simon to help you plug it, eh? 'Fraid this life-saving well's gone dry." Jim snickered again, though Guy tried to kick him.

"Life-saving well, my foot! You've only just gotten the first good use out of that thing since you first discovered it!"

"Come off it, I just ain't never worked its magic on a man before!"

" _Tais-toi_!" Guy was still laughing, even as the corporal shouted orders. Hank, the color returning to his face, whistled to Simon. 

" _Urée convertit le chlore dans un gaz inoffensif. Blocks bandent gaz humide. L'urine est un outil utile pour les deux._ " "

Simon scoffed, but from the way the muscles in his cheek had shifted, he was smirking. _"Je suppose que ce genre de choses est mieux pour autre chose que l'arrosage des plantes."_  

_"Tout est utile ici."_  

_"Même lui."_ Simon snorted, and Guy laughed. Jim had a feeling they were laughing at his expense, and he swiped at Guy again.

"C'mon, mate, all that matters is that we're all alive." He aimed down the sight of his rifle, down their path forward and at the approaching enemy, watched the first few grenades fly, and did the only thing he knew to do.

Keep moving. Survive. Whatever that meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PBI: Poor bloody infantry, an "affectionate" nickname for the cannon fodder in the trenches.
> 
> "Whatever we're doing is likely on the hush." - Operation Hush: A major British operation that was planned to retake the German-held Belgian coast. However, disruptions in gathering the needed force as well as a failed advance during the concurrent Third Battle of Ypres caused the operation to be quietly canceled. In addition, German Operation Strandfest, or Beach Party, which occurred on the Belgian coast North of Nieuport (now Nieuwpoort) on July 10, 1917, disrupted British operations. While there was no record of Germans disrupting the British line as they attempted to assemble, one can imagine that this sort of thing may have happened.
> 
> "Wipers" - Most British soldiers spoke absolutely no French, so the word Ypres was unpronounceable. They often misspoke it as "Wipers," hence Hank and Jim's argument.
> 
> "Do you smell flowers?" - Before gas attacks, the Germans would put out perfumes to mask the scent of chlorine, anything to delay soldiers putting their masks on and preparing.
> 
> Urine in the gasmask: Before proper gas masks were developed, men were instructed to use a damp rag to cover their mouths and noses with hopes of blocking the chlorine gas. It was discovered that urine was a better alternative to water, because, as Hank explained, the urea essentially makes the chlorine harmless.


	8. Joie de Vivre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck in camp after being turned back in Belgium, Simon has a few moments to wax philosophical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try a chapter from Simon's point of view... and not just so I wouldn't have to write a significant amount of the chapter in French.

**8: Joie de Vivre**

" _Marlbrough s'en va-t'en guerre,_ " Simon mumbled the tune under his breath as he pulled another crate of bullets off of the train car and dropped them behind him. " _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine..._ " The bullets all clattered, rattling in place, and Simon scrunched his nose at the clatter. He rarely had a moment alone with his own voice just to think; bullets always drowned out his _mironton_ with a _mirontaine_ too real. He grumbled and stepped back up onto the cart to grab another crate and bring it down, vacantly chanting the tune all the while.  " _Marlbrough s'en va-t-en guerre, ne sait quand reviendra..._ " He grunted as he dropped the crate off of the car again, his arms aching, tipping his head back towards the September sky as he hummed the chorus to himself.

"And who knows when he'll be back..."

"Simon!" Simon whipped around at Guy's strident hail, a scowl crossing back over his quiet reverie as he set his hands on his hips.

"Don't go shouting like that. You want to get the Cabbages' attention?"

"Oh, please!" Guy hefted one of the crates onto his shoulders with ease. "They're miles off! We haven't even seen them for weeks."

Simon grunted, because he had no retort. They'd been turned back from a path North, by his count, four weeks ago, and retreated to a large British encampment a few days' march South of where they'd been after the British regiment they'd been stuck with lost nearly a quarter of their number in a chlorine attack. They'd taken refuge here to wait for resupply and new troops. Simon could only scoff at that. He had watched their number dwindle from a regiment of twenty who'd been cut off from the line to six who'd survived. He knew for certain there would be no relievers, no replenishment, no resupply, no replacements. Then again, he mused as he watched Guy tromp up through the packed mud towards the main tent, some things could not be replaced. He continued to unload the train car, even as some of the other Frenchmen returned from dropping off their last load. He didn't pick up his tune.

They hadn't seen action in weeks now, so anything they could do that wasn't mindless drilling and review was welcome.

Simon returned to the mess hall to see a mass of faces he didn't recognize. He searched through the crowd for anyone familiar, but soon heard a voice he knew:

"Simon! On your left!"

Henry was waving from one of the tables towards the outside of the hall. James was seated down the row with a crowd of half-dressed Tommies, a cigarette in his mouth, a canteen in front of him, a laugh tumbling from his lips. Simon snorted as he crossed the room to join them. He could tell James was only talking with the men who'd come in with them, and none of the new soldiers were in their group – he could tell from the mended rips in their tunics and the scratches on their buttons. Henry smiled in his usual vacant way when Simon reached him. "I took your mail for you. I hope you do not mind."

Simon raised an eyebrow, but took the envelope Henry had left on the table. Henry's French was a bit slow, which made it obvious he was not a native speaker, but he was passable. At least he was trying. Simon had heard the clumsy, derisive repetition of "No parlais Francais" in the rudest, brassiest tones he could imagine more times than he could count. He was merely fortunate Guy recalled all of Tante Constance's lessons and practiced in the markets, or he'd never understand a word going around above him.

James, either. "Oi, Hank!" James waved to Henry, and spouted a veritable geyser of nonsense. English always sounded vicious and barbaric, the words bounced off of one another and jostled for room on the tongue. Worse, James had an annoying tone to his voice, as if he were nearly always laughing. Simon leveled a scowl at him, knowing that even if he told James how annoyed he was at being interrupted, he wouldn't understand. After all, if James did understand, he would also remind him that Henry didn't like to be called like a duck. He still could not fathom this "for-short" business. James sounded nothing like Jim, Henry was nothing like Hank, and though Simon kept catching himself at this "Guy" business, he didn't like it. Guillaume was a perfectly fine name. So was Henry. James, he could take or leave. He found himself reminded of the same as James chortled and winked at Henry, then returned to his enthusiastic conversation with the other Tommies. Henry sighed, but put on his usual smile for Simon.

"He's surprisingly energetic today."

"Annoyingly so." Simon tore into the top letter, from Tante Constance, of course. He stuffed it back into the envelope and looked to the other, this one in a script he didn't recognize. He read this one, with Henry looking on with subtle curiosity.

He recognized the name of alderman of their neighborhood, Jean Clement. There had been a bombing, but the print shop still stood. He stuffed the letter in his shirt and chewed his lower lip, then unlocked his knees to sit.

"News from home. Nothing bad."

"I see." Henry sat across from him, as Simon lit a cigarette and turned the letter from Tante Constance over in his hand. "My sister wrote to me. She said that home has been quiet, but rations are getting tighter. She worries that medicine has been in short supply, and when her students get sick this autumn, there will not be enough cold medicine to go around."

"Tch. In Paris, the schools must close whenever there is an air raid. Children pissing themselves in basements and failing to learn." Simon ashed on the table, gray dust scraping the battered wood like chalk. "Medicine is out of the question, but I suppose if the children aren't in school, they can't spread disease."

"Ah." Henry frowned. "It is easy to forget how dreadful things are in Paris. You were living it, for a time."

Simon inhaled and reminisced. "Yeah. Bread was hard and stale, the men didn't work, people ducked one another's gazes in the street. We were a miserable lot." He dragged on his cigarette, pausing as he exhaled a smoke ring. "And that was before the war began."

Henry laughed, and Simon stifled a smirk. "My, was it so bad? You said you were a bookmaker, weren't you?"

"Yes." Simon fished out his cigarettes. "Pere St. Simon traveled around the countryside as a missionary and an advocate for children, but after he picked me up, he decided to settle down and opened up a Bible publishing shop. He traveled some, but mostly he stayed with his shop, his books. With me and Guillaume." He watched the last of his smoke dissipate against the weather-stained canvas. "He died a few years ago, claimed by a devil of a cough."

"It must have been a torment to watch him waste away."

"Hmph." Simon sneered and stubbed his cigarette out, and quickly lit a new one. "It was unfortunate, but he made clear that he was content with his life. He said..." Simon choked on the smoke, and realized his throat had caught. He coughed for a moment to clear it away, then heaved a sigh. "He said a lot of stupid things. But he is still missed." Simon held the alderman's letter up. "He was helpful to many, always with a kind word or a smile, and offered employment to those who needed it most. I tried to carry on the business after him, but when the war came a mere few months later, we quickly lost all of our employees. The alderman, Monsieur Clement, actually covered for me for a few years so I could keep the shop open and keep as many employed as we could, failing to include me on the neighborhood census of men eligible to serve. I was promptly conscripted when some other bureaucrat found out." Simon threw the letter down. "The bastard lost his position, and he dares to apologize."

Henry looked more than contrite at this, his finger to his lower lip. "One would suppose you'd be grateful to Monsieur Clement."

"I don't want that old crank having a thing to hold over me. He said he was repaying some debt to my father, but I don't believe him." Simon grunted and kicked the paper then crossed his arms. "I wonder if it would have been better if I'd been conscripted earlier."

Henry raised an eyebrow, and Simon realized what he'd said. James was staring over at him, stifling a smirk. He said something or other to Henry, but he caught a little of it:

" _Who ... in … his milk?"_

Simon could fill in the blanks, and his upper lip curled. "Whatever. I'll have to write back." He snatched up the dropped letter and made to leave, until Henry cleared his throat.

"It's strange, these language barriers. It really does make things hard to understand. I suppose the divide between one's pen and one's lips is much the same."

Simon scoffed and walked off. It was an odd irony; Henry was the only intelligent person he could talk to most of the time, but sometimes he would say stupid things like that which made Simon less inclined to speak with him. He wondered if something had gotten clogged in the path between English and civilized language in his fog-riddled brain, or if he thought he was actually coming off as sincere, but damn if it wasn't annoying.

"Simon!" Guillaume was chasing him, and Simon was reminded of other things that annoyed him.

He turned to meet Guillaume with a frown. "Shoo, ape. I'll let you read Tante's letter when I'm done."

"No, no!" Guillaume grabbed Simon's arm. "You haven't eaten."

"I'm not hungry. Go bother Henry." He shook Guillaume off. Guillaume frowned.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. What makes you think something is wrong?"

Guillaume set his hands on his hips, and Simon braced himself. "Simon, do you think I'm stupid?"

Ah, an easy escape. "Yes. Now piss off." He turned again, even as Guillaume blew a raspberry at his back. He almost wished the soldiers nearest them did speak French, because that had been a perfect exchange.

If only all things worked out so well.

* * *

The few French soldiers who remained outside of himself and Guillaume all seemed to clump together like dead flies in milk, and were equally as pleasant to deal with. "Hey, Constantin!" They were shouting to him from their circle outside of the tents where the lot of them were standing around, smoking, sharing letters and muttered conversation. He felt the hair on the back of his neck raise.

"What do you want?"

"Where's the boy you're always toting about?"

Simon sneered, his upper lip curling. "There aren't any orders for him to translate."

"No?" A few of them laughed, as the idiot shouting failed to stifle a smirk. "Maybe we just want to talk to him. Maybe we just think you ought to share your piece of arse."

Simon bit his tongue, because the last time he'd gotten the urge to punch something, he'd gotten bound to a post for his troubles. Still, his chest burned as the other soldiers laughed and the first one made a gesture like he was groping someone's buttocks. "We're lucky he did, but it's so obvious he only dragged his little manservant along to have someone to warm his cot, eh?"

"The pervert. He's lucky the corporal never sniffed them out. Maybe the idiot Tommies will - after all, sodomy's illegal in Britain, and you can bet his cock smells after stuffing it in poor little Guillaume's asshole a couple times."

They continued to throw insults at his back as if he couldn't understand them either, but he finally whipped around and stormed a few steps closer. "Guillaume is a soldier like the rest of us, and unlike most of us, he volunteered. If you want to keep talking about his ass, do it to his face." He knew if he took even a step closer, he'd be on the lot of them like maggots on carrion, but he was certain the next punishment would be more severe. They sneered at him, and one of them pitched his spent cigarette at his feet. Simon crushed it with his boot as he trudged to the tent.

He cared not one whit for them, and spared nary a thought for their opinion of him.

He isolated himself near the edge of the camp, lit his cigarette, and unfolded Tante Constance's letter. Behind the tents, he could see the support lines, and in the distance, the line closest to the German territory. Even this far in, peace had no foothold. All he had was this spot and this tiny parcel of quiet. He spent it opening the letter from the loudest woman he knew. Tante Constance wrote in slanted, slick script, and Simon could almost hear her voice as he read:

" _Constantin:_

_Hello, handsome boy!"_

Simon rolled his eyes.

" _I hope the trenches are treating you well. I have no way of knowing; the newspapers and government want us all to know we are a country at war, that we must make sacrifices of resources and public funds for our soldiers, and that we are fighting to protect our homeland, but they tell us precious little about what this war we are fighting is."_

Simon clicked his tongue, because he often asked himself the same damned question. What did that nosy old hag expect him to tell her, anyway? He tipped his eyes from the page into the distance at the Union Jack fluttering in the dead air. If he strained his ears, he could hear planes, but he didn't know whose. He returned to the letter.

" _I am certain that anything you write will be examined by your captain, but I trust you will tell me what you can. I know that with the separation, it is a miracle my letters reach you at all. Still, I write._

_I do miss you, dear boy, but frankly, I'm grateful you're out of Paris. One never knows when the planes will pass over, dropping shells in city squares. They say Notre Dame is still a piteous sight, and the devout weep for the bruise to her face. The bombings have come less, and it is said that the silly Cabbages bomb London day and night, but everyone watches the skies for fear that they will return. Even in Sainte-Marine we shrink away from dark clouds for fear we are next. It is what we do not know that frightens us most, my boy. But you are fearless, are you not?_

_If you do not return home, I will most fondly remember you as the defiant child you were when the Father and I met you. My cousin adored the ferocity in your eyes. I can only hope you bring that spirit with you to the field._

_I still grieve the Father's passing. I know his deepest regret for his illness was that he would leave you in his wake, still barely a man, and Guillaume, who, despite the large shoes he now fills, is a child yet. I have not had the chance to express to you my admiration of your drive to continue without him, so independent, so strong. It is a tragedy that someone such as you was dragged into this horrid mess, but I know you are an adaptable child, willing to do your best in any situation you might end up in. It's just a shame Auntie can't reach in and tug you out of the muck, eh?"_

"Get to the point, woman," Simon found himself muttering, shaking his head as he turned the page.

_"If no more of my letters reach you, perhaps I can give one little piece of advice. Your Father, rest his soul, he only ever wanted your happiness. If you find happiness binding books in Paris, then seek it there. If you are content with a gun in your hand, blasting away at all who seek to harm you, then do that with all of your heart. If you are not happy where you are, then do everything you can to live until you can find a place where you can be happy. Whatever it is you do, please be happy. Your Father would have liked to think of you smiling._

_I hope you live that I may see you smile someday._

_Yours, Tatie"_

Simon grimaced and threw the letter down, then stepped on it. "That woman." He couldn't tell if she understood nothing or if she was just trying to provoke him. He reared up to stomp on the letter again, but the healing hole in his thigh seized with pain, and he had to stop and hold it, gritting his teeth. "Damn her, going on about – and why won't this damn thing heal?"

"Simon!"

Simon jerked from his frustration and whipped around to see Guillaume coming his way. He flung his hand to his side, away from his aching leg, as Guillaume trotted close and folded his arms. "You were rude earlier."

"And what're you going to do about it?" Simon snatched a cigarette from his pocket and shoved it between his lips, lighting up even as Guillaume huffed.

"You could try being nicer to me. I don't care if you are rude to the others, but I am not them."

"I had no idea apes had any knowledge of manners, anyway." Simon blew a smoke ring. "That isn't all you want. Keep talking." He hoped Guillaume wouldn't notice his leg still shaking, or the vehemence he was trying to bury under ennui. Guillaume merely crossed his arms.

"You got a letter from Tatie! I want to see it!"

"She didn't send treats. Rations must be tight."

Guillaume blew a raspberry. "Boo. That's a shame. I hope she and Jean-Sinclaire are doing well." Then, he held his hands out. "Can I read it anyway?" Simon grunted, grabbed the paper up out of the dirt, and held it out to him. Guillaume moaned like he was the one who'd been stepped on. "Now it's all filthy! Why would you – what did she say?"

Simon spat his cigarette at the ground. "Told us the Father wanted me to be happy."

Guillaume screwed his face up. "Ah. You never liked her telling you what to do." He sighed, then plopped his backside down next to Simon's on the crate, facing out across the expanse of ragged countryside. "And invoking the Father, no, you don't care for that." He tilted his bright brown eyes - his expression as sunny as it ever was in Paris - over to Simon. "But maybe you want to be happy for yourself?"

"Hmph." Simon crossed his arms, but he glanced briefly over Guillaume and his dopey, stupid little smile, and snorted. "Are you happy?"

"Happy enough, yes." Guillaume shrugged. "Considering."

"Considering?"

"Well, we are here, and we are not at home, and we cannot go home, and perhaps tomorrow, we will have to kill people and perhaps die again, and the food is often bland and tasteless, but it is okay. I am happy."

Simon focused on Guillaume, and found himself questioning that stupid smile. "Do you recall when we met?"

"Yes, of course! You were living with the Father, and I was living with Tatie-"

"How old were you when you went to live with Tatie from the workhouse?"

"Ah." Guillaume thought, then tried to count it out. "S...ix? Five? All I know is that one day, it was dark, and the next, Tante Constance came and said to come with her to a brighter place."

"And we met when you were around ten, yes?"

"Yes!"

"Yes." Simon remembered the day as clear as water, Tante Constance climbing out of her carriage and bringing the scrawny, sloppy boy in schoolclothes with her, the Father patting his back as if he couldn't feel every one of Simon's bones through his shirt, the Father telling him:

" _This is Guillaume. He came from the workhouse at St. Pierre, and he will be your friend from here on. Both of you are going to stay with me now."_

He still remembered how Guillaume had bounded up to him, bubbly and beaming, and reached for his hair.

" _Shiny!"_

" _Don't touch me!"_

Simon had grabbed his hands before he could touch him, the pain of remembering already rising in his chest and making his whole body seize, but Guillaume had tangled his fingers with his and jumped in place, still beaming.

" _But you are so bright, so shiny! So shiny! So shiny! And I'm so happy to meet you! Tatie says you will never have to leave me, and I will never be alone again!"_

"I was thirteen then, yes?" Simon dragged out another cigarette. "When we met, you had been out of the workhouse four years, yes? Do you know how long I had been out of the workhouse?"

Guillaume cocked his head. "No, I don't think it was ever discussed. Why-"

"Two days." Simon blew a smoke ring. "I had lived with Father St. Simon for two days. I had never known what it was to be happy until that day. I do things, like, run the printing press, because I must. I come here and fight because I must. Not to enjoy them. The Father told me – directly – that I would know what made me happy when I found it." Simon noticed Guillaume had turned to him and craned his neck forward to study him, and turned his face away. "But I do not seek it. If it comes, it comes."

Guillaume frowned, and Simon could visualize him thinking back. "It is a shame, then, that it has not yet come. And it seems so very many things make you unhappy."

Simon huffed, but crossed one leg over the other and dragged a slag of smoke from his cigarette. He faintly heard a voice behind him; James, calling after Henry. He glanced back to look, and saw Henry coming down the row, and Jim chasing him.

" _Wait, wait! Hank!_ " Henry halted at James' call, frowning as he turned back. James halted, his boots catching in the mud, and gestured. Simon strained to listen and make sense of what he was saying, but the only word he caught was "where."

Henry's natural speaking voice was a little easier to make out, and the words a little more familiar: " _The French... medical supplies. ... inventory._ "

James beamed, his crooked teeth in a crescent grin, and gestured as he spoke. " _... Come with you...? Two heads are better than one._ "

Henry laughed and motioned for James to follow, even as the few French soldiers muttered "asshole Tommies," "bastard Tommies," in their wake. Simon, however, found himself still trying to decode.

"Guillaume." He gave Guillaume an elbow to the arm. "What does that mean?" He practiced the words in English: " _Two heads better zen one."_

"Ah, that was good!" Guillaume's expression exploded with delight, like a firework spreading across his cheeks. "Ah, if my understanding's right, then it means, 'two of us thinking about something is better than one of us thinking about something.' Since we brought the medical supplies over here, Henry is going to count them, and Jim wants to come with."

"Nn." Simon closed his mouth around his cigarette again. "What a strange language. They say much with so little."

"Yeah." Guillaume chuckled and swung his feet, but he kept turning his gaze back to Simon to study him when he thought Simon was focused on the end of his cigarette.

"Did you want something?"

"I still want to know if you can be happy. It is hard to keep smiling here some days, but I wonder if we can be happy when it is all over." Guillaume raised his shoulders and turned his grip on the crate inwards, his knuckles blanching as he tightened his grip. "Simon?"

Simon crushed his cigarette against the crate, then dropped it into the dirt. "What makes you happy?"

"Ah..." Guillaume trailed off, his eyes tipping up towards the smoky, overcast sky. "I... do not know. I simply am happy to live each day, really. I wake up, and I'm alive, and here with you, and no matter what happens, I know I will be alright."

Simon studied Guillaume a moment longer, his arms crossed tight. "Is that really all you think about it?"

Guillaume hummed and rubbed his chin, then put his fist in his palm and beamed with enthusiasm. "And something tasty to eat! That, and you, and I will be alright!"

Simon groaned his disgust and stifled a laugh with the same choked noise. "You really are a simpleton."

"Maybe!" Guillaume laughed, and jumped to his feet. "But it is not a sin to be simple, no?" Simon studied his face from where he sat, and Guillaume extended a hand. "Why don't we go along with the others? I will show Henry where everything is, and if we help, it will be done faster. It is better than sitting here and waiting for something else."

"Mm." Simon grunted and pushed himself from the crate. It was something to do, something other than staring into the middle distance and not wondering if old Jean Clement was being turned out on the streets in nothing but his smalls, or Tante Constance nagging at his neck. Instead, he walked at Guillaume's side through the camp. His fingers brushed against Guillaume's, as if reminding him, 'I'm here.'

That rather made him happy.

So did the sound of Guillaume's voice, quietly chanting under his breath, _"Marlbrough s'en va-t'en guerre, mironton, mironton, mirontaine, Marlbrough s'en va-t'en guerre..."_

He just knew that war was what it was, that it took and took and took, like life, like death, and it all made nothing worth holding onto anyway.

Even that thought didn't keep him, maybe even encouraged him, to sing along: "And who knows when we'll be back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean-Clement is an allusion to Jikaku.
> 
> Sodomy was illegal in Britain during the Great War, known traditionally as "buggery," and at the time, was punishable by two years of imprisonment and time in the pillory. It was not made legal, in fact, until 1967. However, in France, while public acts that were "offensive to good mores" were punishable by law, there was no explicit law against homosexual acts in private between two adults. The age of consent in France is 15, but even to his fellow soldiers, Guillaume does not quite appear to be an adult, and besides that, as most French men were Catholic, the commission of a sex act between two men would still be considered immoral. (I will resist the urge to go into further detail about consent as it evolved over the twentieth century.)
> 
> Sainte-Marine is a city in Brittany, on the north coast of France nearest Great Britain.
> 
> "Joie de vivre" means "joy of life," both as a concept and as a philosophy, a joy of everything and of one's whole being, or as psychologist Maslow put it, "the quiet joy in being oneself."


	9. The Broken Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets a harsh warning from above, and decides that even in the face of grave danger, he must protect Hank in a different way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! I got a bit sucked into some other projects. Enjoy!

**9: The Broken Line**

**9 NOVEMBER 1917**

They'd barely moved in months, but Jim was starting to lose track of the days. He thought his birthday might have passed, but he couldn't know for certain. Certainly, he had done nothing worth celebrating. He'd spent longer than he could fathom digging at the same-looking sections of dirt, shuddering under the distant sounds of gunfire and the grumble of planes, and when they did retreat for the day, Jim couldn't quite tell just how far they'd gotten, or even what he had done. The ground was hard, and getting harder with the cold, and the night came sooner and sooner every day, such that he could hardly see in front of his own face and had to feel along the roughly hewed walls of the trench to find their mess, the alcove he could sleep in, or a few damn good spots he could give himself splinters where the reinforcements were getting worn down. The days were dismal and unpleasant for boredom and dullness. His only comfort was that he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Hank for many of the days.

"You know," Hank murmured under the crack of their shovels against the earth, "back when wars made sense, they weren't fought in winter."

"Yeah?" Jim chuckled, and knocked a rock out of the way to dig a little further in. "Sounds like they were smarter back then, eh?" Hank cracked a smile, and Jim found the will to push his shovel in a few more times.

It was exhausting, back-breaking work, and Jim didn't get a mite of satisfaction out of it. At least when he was up on the wall at stand-to, shouting and shooting his way through the morning hate, he felt like he was doing something of consequence. Even if he wasn't killing anybody, he was keeping any bloody Fritz from vaulting his trench and running a step closer. Besides, it wasn't killing that mattered, or that would make a difference. It was just keeping them back, away from him. Away from Hank.

The mustard gas attack in July still haunted him, even now. He still struggled to keep his eyes closed with the sound of guns battering his ear drums, but now, every flash of light against his eyes made the pantomime of those dying run across his mind again, the hacking, the retching, the moaning. Hank's expression of panic when he realized his mask was faulty, those green eyes wide and his wan face whiter than pale. Hank had never looked closer to crying. Jim had never been as frightened of anything else in his life. He'd been able to laugh at just how utterly ludicrous it all was, because God, he'd just saved his friend's life with piss, but he'd had to save his friend's life with whatever he had at his disposal. If he'd been even a little stupider, a little more ignorant, or just not as quick to think, he'd have lost him.

He'd been a little reluctant to let Hank out of his sight after that. If the other fellows were going to play Crowns or poker, and Hank wasn't interested, Jim would rather hang back and clean his rifle, pistol, and the knife Hank had given him while Hank read. If Hank was assigned a task, Jim would finagle his way into following along. The other Tommies were fine enough, but Hank, Hank was something else. Hank was a brilliant bastard, and losing him would be... well, that'd be something else entirely.

Today, though, Hank was filling sandbags, and Jim was set at packing bullets to send to the front line. The weather was grim, cloudy and gray, but Jim was content enough to whistle to himself and hammer away at his task. Bullets in the box, boxes in the crate, to be dragged up on ropes the half-kilo to the front. Better than dragging his own sorry arse up that way, that was for sure. There may not have been action for weeks, and the gray pallor on most of the other men spoke to their boredom and a general sense of unease at staying in place so long, but to Jim, the lack of action nearly felt like relief. He felt itchier (an ineloquent term for it, or so Hank might say, but one for which he couldn't find a better replacement) staring down the barbed wires of the front, watching Gerry in their slate coats marching and watching him back. Then again, he felt a touch of that same itch not being able to see Hank's narrow shoulders and back in front of him.

He put his box down and turned to the Tommy nearest him (Jim hadn't bothered the learn the name of the newer fellows, for reasons he couldn't himself fathom), muttering, "Gonna nip a cigarette. Let me know if you see the corporal coming."

"I'll warn ya, sure. Just kill the flame real good when you're done." The other Tommy nodded under his helmet, and Jim stepped away from the bullets and powder, outside and around back of the tent, to light up. He sucked the first drag down in a hurry, hoping to steady his nerves, only to be dashed with a few simple words:

"Sneakin' around, are ya, mate?" Jim jumped a foot and whirled in place to find Corporal Bradley smirking at him from under his officer's cap, arms crossed tight. Jim fumbled his cigarette, but Bradley laughed. "Now, it's fine, a man needs a smoke sometimes." Bradley took out a cigarette from the breast pocket of his trench coat, the dim sunlight gleaming off of his ribbons and buttons. "Give a bloke a light, won'cha?"

A chill wind crossed the pair as Jim extended his lighter to Bradley's cigarette, and Bradley shoved his hat back as he put the smoke to his lips. His yellow hair was cropped close, such that Jim could hardly tell it had color at all, and his eyebrows were narrow as if singed off. He sighed out the first gulp of smoke. "Shankhill, ain't it?"

"Yessir." Jim took the last of his cigarette, most of the tobacco having burned off while he'd been delayed, but lit up another. "I wasn't slacking, sir, I-"

"No need, it's fine. We can't toe the line every second, can we? I know you do your job passing well." Bradley seemed to be studying him, his stormy eyes dark. "Truth told, I liked you when I met you. You're a lot like me, ain'cha?" Jim didn't know how to respond, but Bradley went on, "Bit of a roustabout before you joined, weren'cha? Me Da' sent me to military academy in hopes of putting me on the straight n' narrow, but the war came just as I was graduating. How else would you think a fella like me could land a position like this?" He sucked in another drag of smoke. "You got the face of someone who came from below. Lads like us, the military can be a good step up to a better place."

Jim lowered his head. "Yessir. S'why I joined, sir."

"So you say." Bradley chuckled. Jim's ears burned, but Bradley dropped and stomped out his cigarette. "But, here's a thing, one low boy to another - mind who you're with. Collins, the fella with the glasses?"

"Sir?" Jim furrowed his brow.

Bradley jerked his chin knowingly. "How you know him?"

"We met the day I signed up. I felt bad for him, 'cause he was conscripted, and he's a nice fella. Smart, too." Jim was feeling that same itch again, but this time in the back of his head. Something in Bradley's gaze was cold, despite his smirk and affable tone.

"Never met before then?"

"No, sir. In fact, was a year ago today, wasn't it?" Jim lifted his eyes as he realized it. Had it only been a year? Had it really been a year? "Yeah, signed up on my birthday, I did. That's today, that's the day we met."

"Hah!" Bradley clapped his hands together. "Funny, that."

"Yeah." Jim rubbed the back of his head, his cigarette somehow bitter on his lips all of a sudden. "But I felt bad for him."

"Is that why you're always on his heels?" Bradley shifted so that his eyes were meeting Jim's. Jim frowned.

"I said already, I felt bad for the bloke. He's a scrawny fella, bookish, and nice as pie, I didn't think he'd fare well. He's a nice fellow, I'd like to see him go home alive at the end of this." Jim blew smoke towards the ground. "Besides, I don't like watchin' people who can't stand up for themselves getting kicked around."

"Is that all?" Bradley sneered, and dropped his cigarette. "I'll be blunt with ya, mate. You've been actin' funny. Men who act funny start turning into men who don't fire their rifles, and men who turn tail in the face of the enemy, and do you know what we got to do to men like that?" Jim sealed his lips, but Bradley mimicked holding his rifle. "We tie 'em to a post, blindfold 'em, fill 'em with bullets, and burn 'em with the trash. I don't take to cowards, Shankhill."

Jim's shoulders hunched. "Ain't a coward, sir."

"You a nancy, Jim? You a queer?" Bradley lightly punched his shoulder. "The way you follow him has the newer lads whispering. Collins himself raises eyebrows, but he's worth a damn on the field, so I look the other way at his little fopperies and flounces." Jim paled - he knew what it meant if he didn't look the other way.

"I bunk with him, sir, he ain't a sodomite."

"Ain't got proof, no." Bradley smirked, shaking his head. "We'd rather not send either of ya to the Tower in disgrace, but if I get the feeling you're a weak link in the chain, I'll find stronger irons to clap you in." Then, he grabbed Jim's chin. "You understand me? Shape up, or you'll tip the scales on your own guilt."

Jim nearly swallowed his tongue, but choked out a, "Yes, sir." Bradley let go of him, gentle as you please, and patted his cheek.

"See, I figured you could be reasoned with. All this shit about scared soldiers, you just need a good leader. Mind me, Jim, and maybe you'll be an officer yet. For my part, I'll be minding you." With that, Bradley pivoted and trudged away. Another cold November wind ran down Jim's spine, but as Jim stared, shivering, at the corporal's retreat, Bradley didn't even brace to the cold in the comfort of his coat.

The bastard. Where did he get off? Jim wiped his mouth off and circled the tent, sorting the words in his head. Yet, the only word that mattered was Bradley's, wasn't it? Jim steeled himself and returned to his task, eyes low.

At the end of the work day, when the sun sank, Jim left the tent with the others, and found Hank waiting with Simon outside, the pair of them talking. Hank raised a hand to hail Jim, the sunset highlighting his casual smile, and Jim swallowed, but followed the others towards the mess hall without a second glance or even a single friendly word.

Best to withdraw quickly, so he thought. What if Hank knew what the corporal was thinking of him? He knew if Hank had told him, he'd be just as likely as not to go up to the corporal and deck him one, and he couldn't let Hank take the brunt of this mess.

He'd resolved to take care of Hank, and if that meant putting distance between them, so be it.

* * *

Jim could avoid Hank on the field, in the trenches, even at the front. He would try not to stand near him or even look at him during stand-to or the morning hate. He would make only polite conversation, just what was necessary. He caught Hank raising an eyebrow when he would end a conversation shortly, often with a curt reply or by walking away, but tried to ignore it. He could manage mundane things that way.

"Jim," Hank might say, motioning for him to stop and speak with him. Halt Jim did, though he glanced over the wall for a split second, for anyone listening, anyone watching, Fritz in gray, or Bradley in khaki. Nobody but Hank around, his earnest green eyes dim in the chilly afternoon light. "There's going to be a raid tonight. I've been invited, but the corporal wants you on watch."

"Fine." That was all Jim had to say, and even though he wanted to wish Hank luck and complain of not being invited along himself, he granted Hank a quick nod and marched off to get his orders proper. He caught Hank's eyes dropping the moment he passed him by, but tried to forget the disappointment that Hank was failing to hide.

He still keenly watched the horizon during the raid, the flashes of powder and gunfire in the distant night, until he heard Hank's mellow voice calling back the code word on their return.

Jim would eat with the other Tommies, huddled in the bunker and stomping crumbs into the dust. If Hank came near, he would finish his meal and try to depart. He had loads of other things to do, he had a gun to clean, sandbags to fill, holes to dig. Hank would watch him walk away, and Jim keenly sensed his attention even as he crossed the alcove to take orders.

The louse check the next time they returned to the front was as uncomfortable as it could be. How could he pretend not to at least tolerate Hank's kindness when Hank had his thin fingers laced into his hair, or when it came to him to check through his? He stayed on his end of the shower as long as he could, and though he did a thorough job, he kept his touch light and made no effort to talk other than a quiet, "Hold still." However, when Hank had finished with him, Jim didn't have to make haste to withdraw. Hank merely patted his shoulder after pushing the last lock of his hair back into place and crossed behind him to dry off.

That sudden dismissal put a bellows through Jim's chest, dislodging heart and lungs alike and shredding at his entrails, but he clamped down on the hurt. He could watch Hank from afar, like a sentry at the gates. Just so long as the corporal couldn't find an excuse to have the both of them clapped in irons, that was enough.

If the other Tommies had noticed his odd behavior, they didn't speak a word of it. He still played cards with them, endless hours of Crowns and poker that dragged at him like the bags under his eyes, he could jest and laugh, he stood with them in training, he huddled round with all of them as they talked new procedure, rolling his eyes and ribbing with the fellows nearest him. He was as friendly as he could ever be, even though, for whatever reason, he felt gutted without Hank at his side.

Guy wasn't a Tommy, and he made clear precisely what he thought by running up and seizing Jim by the hair just as he was finishing breakfast. "What is wrong with you?" He yanked Jim's hair, and Jim backhanded him.

"Lay off, tiny!" Guy swatted at his arm, but Jim grabbed his hand. "And what's your problem?"

Guy scowled, crossing his arms and sticking his lower lip out. "Hank tells Simon you are not speaking with him. He said he doesn't understand why, but he is sick at heart and angry. Simon says your cradle was rocked too close to the wall and to forget you, but Hank just sighs and shakes his head, and I want to know what is going through that stupid, thick head of yours!"

Jim swore and pushed Guy. "None of your bloody business, you daft bloody chimpanzee!"

"Oi!" Someone shouted from not too far off, and Jim turned and spotted one of the other Tommies waving his hands across his chest in a "cut it out" motion. "If the corporal catches you scrapping, he'll throw you on the cross for FP!"

"Christ." Jim crossed his arms to restrain himself, and Guy stomped his feet.

"Tell me!"

"Christ," he repeated, with disgust this time, then hooked Guy by the collar. "Fine! Over here. Who the hell're you gonna tell anyway..."

He dragged Guy to an empty little stretch of field between the showers and the latrines, where a bunch of empty crates had been left abandoned, and yanked him to crouch on the ground. "Look," he hissed. "The corporal thinks Hank's a fag."

Guy, who'd remained angry up until that very second, cocked his head. "Quoi?"

"A queer, a homo!" Each pejorative spewed forth with more bile than the last, and Jim felt sick even thinking about it. "An arse-bandit. A perv. You get it yet?" Guy slowly shook his head, and Jim grabbed his collar and shook him around. "A fella what fucks other fellas!"

"Oh!" Guy snapped a finger. "Homosexuel! Sodomite!" Jim somewhat recognized both of the words, but though Guy scrunched his nose for a moment, he couldn't help but wonder why he wasn't more disgusted. More surprising was what Guy said next: "Why does that matter?"

Jim sneered and fished out a cigarette, slumping against the crates. "Why's it matter – it's _illegal_ , or do you not know what that means? You get caught acting a queer back home, they ship your arse to the stocks. Breaking a moral law as a soldier means you get dishonorable discharge, and they send you to the Tower in chains."

"Really?" Guy looked a little horrified. "What should it matter what two men do in the privacy of their own bed?"

"It's against God and Country, Christ!" He shushed Guy, then asked in a hush, "You mean sodomy ain't against the law in France?"

Guy shrugged and set his hands on his hips. "If it is, I have not been told. I think that one can do whatever he wants, so long as he keeps it in his bedroom. The priests will tell you it is a sin, but not all sins are crimes. One cannot reach up a girl's skirt in public, but the Gendarme will not just march into your bedchamber and tell you what you can and cannot do with your penis."

Jim blanched and shuddered. French people, blimey. He should've figured. "Yeah, well, we're still under British law here, and even if there ain't no truth to it, and the corporal's in charge of the law. If our corporal says we're queers, we're queers, and if the corporal says I'm a coward, I'm a coward." He cringed. "I can't let Hank get killed because me an' him are friends, and I can't risk my own skin, either."

Guy rubbed his lower lip, lowering his eyes. "But, you worry about him, yes? If he goes to jail, he will at least be home, safe."

"Yeah." Jim sneered and hunkered down against the boxes, hanging his head. "But he wants to be a doctor. Imagine, a doctor with a morality crime on the record; or don't, 'cause they wouldn't let back him into school after that."

Guy bit his lip. "That is simply awful." He huddled next to Jim, not even cringing as Jim lit up a cigarette. "To love another man... some dislike it, but there is nothing wrong with it. And you are only friends. Just because you are a soldier, does that mean you are not human?" He spit next to himself and scowled. "Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

"Stupid, but it's how it is." Jim blew smoke into a cloud around his head. "Do me a favor and don't tell him. He'll likely try and have words with the corporal. Besides, I get the feeling he's pissed at me anyway."

"He's more sad than angry."

Jim stubbed his cigarette on the crate behind him and sighed. "Better that than in chains or dead." He got to a stand and tucked his hair back behind his ear. "At least 'til the corporal eases off, this's how it's gonna have to be." He lit up again, but pivoted for the camp. "I've got to clean my rifle before the evening check. You get back with the other Franks and keep your head low."

He heard Guy mutter something in French as he walked away, but he was sure he understood the word pity. It sat sour in his head, but not as much as watching Hank walk away from him at the next meal hour. Loneliness was a stone in his gut, dragging him deeper and lower than the trenches were dug, but he'd bear it for Hank's sake.

Perhaps it should have worried him that he did do so much for Hank, but he wouldn't change it now.

* * *

**18 NOVEMBER 1917, ARRAS, FRANCE**

When the company began to move again, it was West. Jim somewhat recognized the terrain, a familiar signpost along their march forward. They'd been in Arras before, but this time, they were marching steadily West rather than flanking around it. Jim knew himself to be just another Tommy to fire his rifle over the line, but he still would have been a little more content to know where they were going and what to expect next. Even if he was just here to shoot where told to shoot or to march when told to march, he knew he was to be shot at, so knowing what he'd be avoiding would be a comfort.

Yet it was usually Hank who'd memorized the terrain, brilliant fellow with an atlas etched on that beautiful mind of his right next to the dictionary embedded within it, and he was steadfastly marching nearer the Franks than to him. If Jim broke his place in line to join him, he'd surely draw attention. Besides, each time he caught his eye, it was to swiftly and summarily be ignored. It was what he'd aimed for, so he shouldn't have been upset, and yet he was. How eerie it was, to stand with an army and yet feel so completely alone.

They marched through the night and arrived wherever they were meant to be when dawn was still gray and wan in the smoke-cloaked sky, and orders were called to "fetch out your shovel and dig, boys!" Sir, yes, sir, Jim took his shovel from his pack and pushed it in with a heft from his shoulders and a push from his boot. The ground was hard and cold, but he had his orders, so dig he would. Every other man was doing the same, with the corporals and lieutenants hurrying along the line and urging them on. Jim dug as quick as he could along the line they were directed to dig, looking from eye to eye as he did, laughing along with the quiet griping from some of the others.

As the chilly morning became a dusty, dry, cold afternoon, Jim finally voiced the question: "What d'ya think's going on?" He expected Hank's cool, calculated answer, as he'd already analyzed the situation and could predict what would come next, but then remembered that Hank wasn't here. He tipped his head forward, and could just make out the glint of Hank's glasses among the dusty blue uniforms of the last French soldiers, off in the foggy distance. Fortunately, one of the other fellows did have an answer:

"Seems like they're plotting somethin' big." The other Tommy, a younger fellow Jim didn't know by name, motioned across the field. "That's a damn dense line there."

Another fellow, one of the older guys, laughed over the crunch of his shovel into the dirt. "What if it were the bloody Hindenburg? Y'think they're sendin' us straight down the fuckin' Hindenburg line?"

A bunch of the other Tommies laughed, though Jim remained with the few that didn't, exchanging curious looks. Jim, of course, had to ask: "Wot'cher mean by that?"

The same Tommies laughed again, but one of them punched his shoulder and gave him an answer: "The main fucking line. Gerry's been holed up, holding that same damned line for the past two years, and we ain't been able to break it. Ain't you ever read a newspaper?" Jim scowled, but squinted across the plain. He could just barely make out the lines of the barbed wire marking the edges of the line. "Imagine," the other guy murmured. "Breakin' through it. We'd be right heroes, wouldn't we?"

"Shit, I dunno." Jim rubbed his arm a little, then went back to digging. Truth be told, it was likely as true as anything Hank could have told him, though he'd likely be a lot more sure of what he was saying. Still, Hank wouldn't have made him feel like a moron for asking.

The day passed, the night fell, but as Jim walked his watch down the row he was assigned, he couldn't shake a sense of unease. The ground seemed to shake under his feet, and his trigger finger trembled with it. Perhaps the sense that he was alone, despite seeing the men nearest him and those on a sleep shift, was starting to truly sink in. He couldn't see Hank in the dark, and the thought that he wouldn't be at Hank's side when whatever was coming came was making him shake.

Then, the ground shook in earnest, and there was a cry from somewhere behind the line: "Stand to! All arise and stand to!"

Jim bolted to the fire step, shotgun at the ready, squeezed in alongside the rest of the company, but though he pointed and aimed, the German line was still scrambling for order behind their barricades. What were they aiming for? What was he shooting at? Every bloody Tommy was here staring down the pitch at a field of ants in disarray, was this even a fight at all?

The ground rumbled again, and Jim turned to see the source of the commotion: a fleet of tanks, driving in formation up the center of the trenches. Jim's gut fell into his shoes, and he nearly dropped his gun at the sight. He'd only seen elephants in picture books, history, and rumor, but this was the closest he could imagine to seeing Hannibal Barca coming down the Alps on a fleet of mammoth elephants, each beast a-bellows and roaring with the commotion of the soldiers on their backs. Jim could only stare, him and every other Tommy gaping, as the entire British tank fleet rolled by them.

Four hundred, at least, all with guns raised and blazing red in the pre-dawn light.

The Germans were watching, too, and though Jim knew not one word in German, even he knew the sound of an uproar. Old Gerry had been just as surprised by this as he was. That had been the point.

None of the orders being shouted were directed at him, but Jim lifted his shotgun back to his shoulder, standing-to. _Sir, yes, sir._ He could guess what came next.

The tanks bellowed with every shot of mortar flung over the German line, crashing through the pillboxes built along their barbed-wire blockades, and Jim felt his stomach twist at each impact. Every crater in the earth made him feel like something had sunk into his soul. He couldn't take comfort in knowing it wasn't him, because it was so close it felt like he was there beside it. Imagine, he thought, just imagine their terror. It became harder to see the men wailing in horror not one hundred yards away as enemy when he was just as terrified. He had a half second to wonder if he would even think to scream if he saw one of those shells heading towards him.

Around him, the Tommies erupted in uproar and cheers, jeering their enemies as the tanks charged through their lines as easily as crepe paper, as the barbed wire was crushed, as the front lines were left empty. Then, the order was heard over the field: "OVER THE TOP, RUN THEM OFF!"

Up and over the trench wall they went, tumbling on the beaten earth, and Jim rolled to a stand and rushed across no-man's land, driven by his own determination to chase through the chaos left in the wake of the tanks. Some of the German soldiers had come over the top to face them, but those brave few in their slate-gray tunics were scant in comparison to the army in khaki, ants in the path of a stampede. Jim reached for his trench knife but instead found and fastened his bayonet as he got close, his boots pounding the ground, thudding in his ear with his heartbeat. His vision went white as one man approached him, rifle at the ready, and he swung like a child with a stick.

The German was on the ground. His helmet tumbled off; his hair was yellow and curly. Jim's pistol was in his hand, and he pulled the trigger. White noise screamed through him, blocked out every other thought.

Then, the screaming came back to him, and the yellow haired man was rolling to his feet - shit, he missed! How?! Before the yellow haired Gerry could fight back, someone came up alongside him and thrust his bayonet through Gerry's chest. Hank crossed in front of Jim, catching his eye for a scant moment, then turned and bolted past him towards the German line, saying, "Advance with the others. They're already retreating."

Jim spared half a glance at the yellow-haired Gerry splayed on the ground, his expression petrified in surprise. Then, he turned to follow Hank, but he was already gone, lost in the mix.

The Tommies had formed a line like a row of archers, and Jim joined them, with more and more lining up beside them, and they marched on and on. The sound of machine guns had faded to only those from their own line in the distance, the German pillboxes crushed and empty, shelled open and looking like sardine tins left punctured and scrapped along the emptied front line. Jim wasn't here just to look, though, no, his lot was to march forward and shoot at anything or anyone still moving. However, though they marched through German territory, the German infantry was fleeing, and the tanks were coming about again just to clear them all out.

The German line was empty for as far as the eye could see. They'd broken through the Hindenburg Line, and now Jim stood in the debris of German territory. There was a call behind them for infantry to retreat and regroup, to make way for the tank fleet, and as Jim turned to retreat with the rest, he spotted Hank through the chilly haze and dust and chased after him.

"Hank! Mate!" Hank didn't turn, but Jim noticed him stumbling and ran. "Hey, mate, what's the matter?"

"Bugger off." Hank kept moving, but Jim stopped cold.

"Hank?"

"I said, bugger off." Hank pivoted on his heel, panting, huffing and puffing steam like an overworked engine. Jim was lost for words, but Hank shoved him. "You pretend I'm not there for two weeks, and suddenly when there's danger, you pretend to give a damn? Bugger off!"

Jim felt lost, like he'd been dropped here in the dark. "I was... I was..."

Hank scoffed, then rubbed both hands over his eyes. "No. I don't want to hear it, Shankhill. I've been awake thirty hours, I'm sore and covered in blood, and I have no strength left to deal with you."

"I..." Jim realized he was reaching for Hank, and let his hand fall. "I'm sorry. I was just..."

"Go!" With that, Hank spun on his heel and tromped off after all the others, leaving Jim in his wake, bereft. Jim cringed, but dragged his feet forward. He could still hear Hank's ragged breathing, and tried to follow his back as they staggered over the bodies and debris left in the wake of the British rally.

He could ignore and forget. He wasn't here to have a friend, he wasn't here because he gave a damn about Hank. Saving Hank, keeping him alive, that was just gravy. (Having Hank keep him alive, that, too, was merely a welcome bonus, he'd survive without him, wouldn't he?) He was here to fight for home and country, to keep the bloody Germans from overtaking the rest of Europe. That thought made him pause in place and gaze back at the carnage behind them. Blood and oil pooled in the tank tracks, and scores of men who couldn't escape crawling death were left prostate on the hard earth, forgotten and abandoned. This was victory. This was what he was here for. They were likely to do it tomorrow, the next day, and the next.

He steeled himself and tried to move forward. The Corporal had challenged him to prove he wasn't the weak link in the chain, so now, effectively broken off from that which had held him back, he could walk the proving grounds on his own feet.

"This is what you signed up for," he told himself, "you and you alone."

His boots were heavier than shells, each step harder than the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November 20, 1917 marked the opening of the Cambrai operations, where the bulk of the British forces gathered en masse and first successfully broke through the Hindenburg line, using a surprise attack of the entire tank fleet. This was the first major success in breaking through this solid line in the front, even though the territory claimed in that first rush was quickly reclaimed by the German forces.
> 
> I don't think I have to translate the French in this chapter for you. However, a French phrase is used: when Guy says Jim's "cradle was rocked too close to the wall," it's a French insult that essentially means that one is an idiot.
> 
> With regard to public morality laws, sodomy was illegal in Britain as of the Buggery act of 1533. Yes really. Sodomy was an executable offense in Britain, though the last executions actually took place in 1835. In 1885, the Labouchere Amendment prohibited "gross indecency," widely understood to indicate sexual relations between two men. "Attempted sodomy" was punishable by up to two years in jail. Consensual private sexual acts between two men was not legal in Britain until 1967.
> 
> France is more complicated. When the French Penal code of 1791 was put in place, there were no explicit laws prohibiting sexual acts between two consenting adults in place, outside of occasionally-enforced laws against acts that were an "offense to good mores." Like Guy said, there was nothing preventing two men from being intimate, even if it was socially looked-down on. However, in 1960, homosexuality was added to a list of "social scourges" which meant that any public sex act that happened to be homosexual was more harshly penalized, and any prostitutes cruising for homosexual sex (or transvestites) were, again, more harshly penalized. In addition, laws were put into place in 1940 that raised the age of consent, 15 at the time, to 18 for homosexual acts. However, in 1917, no such laws were in place.
> 
> With regard to crime and punishment in the army at the time, while my research did not turn up anything specific about violation of public morality laws while enlisted, any moderately crime committed at the front would be tried either by court martial or by one's CO. Men put up for court martial, by the books, were supposed to have legal representation, and there was supposed to be time for gathering evidence. In practice, court martials were informal, and they were often tried by their own CO. In this case, Jim knows Corporal Bradley would be the one passing judgment on him, and he would be judge, jury, and executioner - and executioner is not an exaggeration. Crimes such as "shamefully throwing down one's weapon in the face of the enemy" were punishable by death. At a time when he or Hank could be imprisoned or punished at the say-so of a CO who seems to have it out for Hank, Jim has reason to exercise caution.
> 
> I hope to have more soon. Wish me luck!


	10. The Perils of the Trench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is more alone than ever at the front, as the war becomes ever more horrible.

**10: The Perils in the Trench**

The next three days were all about pushing forward, pushing through. With the amassed British forces – including the kilted fellows from the Scottish wing, the Irish with their impenetrable accents, even the men in turbans shipped in from the East – they were making huge amounts of progress and keeping Gerry on the run. When they'd stopped to hold position the first night, Jim was kept awake by the cacophony of church bells, singing their thanks for liberation. Jim kept hearing news of other battlefields in whispers and rumors, other places nearby. A section of woods, reclaimed, a bridge broken by a tank and the cavalry having to ride around, miles and miles of land taken back. He eventually found out that they'd crossed into a place called Ribécourt, and they'd steadily drummed the Germans out, step by step, mortar by mortar. At the end of two days' advancing, they were holding position here, waiting for the cavalry division to sally forth towards the next line.

So, here they remained, outside of a ravaged town, in lines like they'd been drawn on a map, but though Jim was meant to be staring down his sights for any signs of movement from the other side, his gaze kept drifting towards Hank, far down the row. They hadn't spoken since after the first push, hadn't even come near each other, by design. Jim dearly wanted to, but not when they were under the gun.

Being rejected by his one solid friend stung like nothing else could have. He had to make his excuses and apologize. He'd been a right arse by just pushing Hank back all at once. Maybe if he'd just eased back a little, it'd've been enough to keep Bradley from breathing down his neck. If he could just come up with some way to explain why he'd been distant, maybe Hank would forgive him.

A flood of guilt and fear welled through him as he remembered Hank's rebuke. He hadn't felt so small since he'd left home.

Some of Jim knew he wasn't meant to be here to make friends, he was meant to fight, but so much of his days felt like standing and waiting for something to fight, or preparing for battle, teetering on the edge of some great climax that came not with glory, but with terror. Even now, all there was to see was a gray horizon, with the knowledge that any moment, death could roar back over the hillside.

The rest of Jim hoped he had a chance to apologize and be deemed worthy of forgiveness before death came for him, lest whatever remained with him lingered with that regret.

The call came from behind them: "About face!" Every man rose as one, Jim with them, and began to march back towards the support lines. The cavalry – bearing the insignia of the 5th – rode past them, all at arms, bayonets fastened, blinders on horses and the men gazing staunchly forward, and Jim with the other Tommies of his division made their retreat.

Just as they crested the hill, Jim heard a volley of gunfire, but he dared not turn back. The order hadn't come to do so, but Jim could hear the chaos, smell the powder and reek of battle. He marched forward, trying to catch sight of Hank through the marching bodies. He hadn't turned, either. The Corporal marched them away from the fighting, even as the noise came louder and closer.

* * *

Jim heard the whispers at mail call: the ground they'd been guarding the day before had been retaken by Germany, divisions turned back, thousands dead and the flag of Germany flying over the trenches they had dug. Jim didn't relish having to dig them anew; the ground was frost-solid and every time he closed his fingers into a fist, the skin of his knuckles split and wept. The bells that had rung their victory on that first day had echoed and died out, and now the same men who'd celebrated that day all sat on their hands and arses in camp for their relief days, wondering when the tense gray skies would break, wondering what horrid things would come to pass while they reloaded, or what they'd be marched back into when their rest time was up.

It seemed like damn near every soldier who marched under the British flag was gathered somewhere around this camp, and Jim wondered if maybe John was here, somewhere. In the same blink, he wondered if John wasn't already six feet under.

Hank got mail, and Jim watched from his place as he struggled to his feet to accept the letter, grimacing under his helmet and straining to walk. Jim wondered if the chill had set in his bones like it had his own, because he, too, found it hard to will himself to stand and take the single letter that had come for him. Kate Collins had sent him a tin of her burnt cookies, and a short letter:

" _Dearest Jim: I have not heard from you since my last letter. Hank had not said you were injured, so I hope it is that you had little to say and not that I've somehow insulted you. I hope you are well in this cold weather. The skies are as gray as can be and gloomy at home, and I wonder if the same sky hangs over France. My brother is loathe of foul weather. Please keep his spirits high, and may my fond wishes keep you warm. Fondly, Kate Collins."_

Jim tried to crush her letter in his hand, but stopped short and stuffed it into the front pocket of his tunic. Then, he forced down one of her cookies. They were rock hard, as stiff and dense as the frozen ground.

There was no rest to be had. Jim couldn't relax, not playing Crowns, not sleeping in a tent instead of an alcove, not after a flask of rum or a dozen cigarettes, not even in the shower.

Clark had been looking for a partner for the louse check. Jim wanted to ask what had happened to Bruce, he'd thought the two of them had usually paired off, but Clark's hangdog look said more than enough. The water was mercifully warm, or at least warm by comparison to the frosty outside air, and Jim held still as Clark turned his hair over. He was rough about it, too, and Jim flinched every few seconds and swore when Clark tugged. Clark muttered an apology and stepped back, and Jim rinsed a hand off and put it into Clark's hair.

He took a single look and jerked back. "Shit, you got the fuckin' chats, mate." He could see the telltale bumps in the part of his hair, all down his scalp. He cleaned his hands off again, as Clark swore. "You got soap?"

"Like me mum can send me fuckin' soap when she's tryin' to feed all me little sisters on me fuckin' stipend." Clark spat at the ground. "Christ, I'll get powdered or shaved or whatever it is they do, shit. Thought I was itchy, but I thought I was dreamin' it." Clark folded his arms tight around his towel. "It gets so bloody fucking quiet out there, I thought the bumps and scratches was me bloody brain playin' tricks."

"It ain't a trick, mate." Jim waved him off and dried the water out of his hair before it could freeze. "Just get deloused." Jim faintly heard Clark calling him an arsehole as he yanked his trousers up and stormed off, and dressed himself in his civvies, but Jim couldn't make himself care.

He had tired of loneliness too. Damn the Corporal, he had to at least talk to Hank.

Jim had thought to seek out Guy or Simon to ask after Hank first, but neither of them seemed to be around. Jim couldn't even remember seeing them at mail call, not since arriving back at camp. He tried not to worry – they were far from the front – he could barely hear the shells from here – they were fine. However, more disconcerting was that he couldn't find Hank. He wasn't at the showers, he wasn't at the mess, he hadn't been put to work with the medics, and every second Jim spent searching sent his heartrate ratcheting higher and higher.

Finally, he caught a glimmer of light near the grime of the canvas tents, the very same as the light caught off of Hank's glasses, and Jim rushed towards it. Hank, still filthy in his foul uniform, sat Indian-style in front of their tent with a flask of rum at his side and a book open in his lap. Jim jogged towards him, but Hank didn't even lift his face from the crease of his book. His fingers trembled on the edge of the page. "A message, Shankhill?" Jim tried to speak, but only managed to swallow. Hank turned a page but kept his head bowed. "Did the Corporal have orders for me? Have you been sent to fetch me for something or other?"

"Collins." Jim dared not break a whisper. "Hank, I-"

"If you're here to gape at me like a mouldering fish, might I suggest finding something more useful to do with what time you have?"

"Just want to talk, mate. Check on ya. Your sister wrote me, she worries-"

"I'll ask her to write you no more, if it troubles you so." Hank closed his book and tilted his eyes up towards Jim, who was trying to scrape his gut from the ground after it hit the dirt at those words. "If you won't leave, I'll find somewhere else to be." He struggled to his feet again, but Jim bit back a swear and grabbed his arm.

"No, damn you, listen to me!"

"Get off!" Hank yanked his arm back and collapsed onto his backside. He cried out when he hit the ground, his helmet tumbling off, and Jim chased him to the ground. The other Tommies nearby spun around at the noise, and Jim could only gape as Hank lay flat and moaned. Seeing his face full on revealed that Hank was pale and sweating, and the skin on his neck was carpeted with tiny red bumps. Jim instinctively touched his forehead before he could brush him off.

"You've a fever."

"Leave me be, leave me be!" Hank tried to push Jim's hands off, but that only showed Jim that the rash had spread to his arms and the backs of his hands.

"Hell, Hank!" He motioned to some of the others. "Oi, he's sick, someone help me get him to the medical tents!"

Jim worked Hank's arm up onto his shoulder, but Hank thrashed and resisted. "It's nothing, it's but pain and a fever, I'm fine!"

"Bullshit!" Jim fastened Hank's hand against his breast, and though he could feel Hank struggling, and he knew Hank to be stronger than he looked, his motions were as weak as those of a newborn babe flailing stupidly at a spider over his crib. "Someone help me move him, the bloody sod's heavy and stubborn!"

One of the Michaels broke off from the crowd and put Hank on his other shoulder, but he shook his head as Hank stumbled. "It's the same as that Frank boy."

"Frank boy?" Jim's eyes widened, and Hank moaned.

"Christ, no." The words were as much a plea as a sob.

Simon was sitting outside of the medical tent, but he sat up and took notice when Jim and the other fellow dragged Hank to the flap. _"Lui aussi?"_ He yanked the flap open as Jim crossed through, and Jim gaped to see a row of soldiers all laid out on cots, sweating, moaning. Guillaume was among them, pinned to his cot by a heavy blanket. Jim could see his mouth moving, but as he marched Hank past, he could only understand half of what he was saying.

"I am... Je vais... nothing wrong... _c'est chaud..._ It's nice... to be _chaud..._

Hank was shaking his head as Jim passed him to the doctor, and his legs shook as he forced himself to stay upright. "Oh, Guillaume, you, too." He shivered as the doctor stuffed a thermometer in his mouth, and the doctor turned to Jim.

"How long's he been feverish?"

Jim scraped his memory for the knowledge, but couldn't find an answer. He hadn't been around. "I've no idea. Just noticed this morning."

"It's..." Hank tried to speak around the thermometer, then shifted it. "Just today. I've felt aches and pains for days, but I've felt weak since this morning."

Days. Jim remembered seeing Hank laboring to stand, to walk, straining with each step. And he'd done nothing.

"Bah," the doctor huffed as he took the thermometer. "Fever. Just like the rest."

Michael shook his head from behind Jim. "Hell, I'm out of here, what if it spreads?" He scrambled for the tent opening, but Jim didn't turn, because Hank was sagging, and the doctor was wagging a finger.

"I'll quarantine you 'til the fever breaks, but you ain't getting out of work that long. You're lucky you ain't the Frank boy, he's near burning to death." Hank shivered and drew his arms tight around himself, head hung.

"I'll help you if I can."

Jim's chest ached, and he laid a hand on Hank's shoulder. "Mate, c'mon, if you're sick, you got to rest."

Hank flung his arm back, pushing Jim off. "Get away, curse you, I told you!" He whirled on Jim, stumbling. "Get out!"

The doctor, too, shooed Jim off, and Jim started to move for the entrance, but Jim saw Hank bury his face in his palms, heard him mutter something to 'Katie.' Jim only fully turned around just as Hank's knees finally buckled.

Simon hadn't moved from the front of the tent, but now Corporal Bradley was standing over him, talking down at him: "You can't be here, froggy, fuck off!"

Simon stared impassively up at Bradley around his cigarette, then spoke in slow, slow French: "No. Parlais. Anglais." He nodded towards the tent. _"J'ai besoin. Guillaume. Anglais."_

Jim quickly understood – not a translation, but the problem. "That one don't speak no English, sir. The one Frenchman what did is laid up in there, speakin' both."

Bradley whipped around on Jim, as Simon's face fell. Jim noticed a pile of cigarette butts gathered at his feet; Simon had been sitting here for a while. Likely not sure what else to do with himself. Bradley, however, looked past it and spat his disgust at Simon's feet. "Bah! We can't order 'em without him, then what use are they? Bloody worthless, that's what." He motioned flippantly to Simon. "Deal with him." With that, the corporal marched off, giving Jim no chance to say that he spoke not two words of French.

Simon stared at him expectantly. Jim bit his lip, then tried, slowly, "Guy. Fever." He put a hand on his forehead. "Can't leave."

_"Je comprends un peu ce que vous dites, mais si vous essayez de me dire que Guillaume ne peut pas partir, je le sais déjà. Tu crois que je ne sais pas? Idiot."_ Simon reached into his breast pocket, then took out an empty cigarette box and let loose with an invective that Jim didn't need a translator to know was a swear. Then, he craned his neck up to Jim. "Cigarette."

Jim scowled and took out his box. "You want a cigarette?"

Simon nodded insistently. _"Oui, imbécile, donne-moi une cigarette."_

Jim shook the box. "Say, 'give me a cigarette.'"

"C'est 'give me a cigarette.'" Simon repeated, glowering, and Jim held one out for him.

"I give you a cigarette."

Simon snatched six of the smokes left in Jim's box and put them in his jacket, muttering, "Give you a cigarette," as if it were a threat. He lit one up, and Jim groaned. He felt like he was bogged down in stupidity. He pointed towards the mess.

"We can't stay. Have to go." He took a few steps, and motioned. "Come with me. We go."

Simon stared at him around the cigarette, and just as Jim started to wonder if he was going to have the drag the stubborn jackass by his collar, Simon rose to a stand. _"Je suppose que vous dites que nous devons partir."_ He glanced back at the tent, clearly reluctant. Jim bit the inside of his mouth.

"I know you're likely worried. I am too. But there ain't nothin' we can do."

"Merde." Simon huffed condensation and smoke. _"Alors allons-y."_ He trudged off, and Jim followed close. He couldn't do anything else for neither Guy nor Hank, and he had a painful notion that Hank wouldn't even let him.

* * *

Hank and Guy might as well have been back home for how often Jim caught sight of them. He got no news of them from the infirmary tent, no word from the nurses who were tending those laid low or from anyone leaving. Jim heard rumors that anyone who did leave the tent was spirited away in the night so the other men wouldn't see the bodies being carried out or get even a single notion of making themselves ill in hopes of being returned home.

He waited all of his rest days in hope for news, malingering around the tent when he could, but avoiding the corporal's eye. The wind only blew colder, extinguishing his cigarette each time he tried to light it, and the tent remained closed to him. He kept his fingers crossed tight that Hank might peer out, even if it was just to jeer him off again. All he saw were more and more men going in.

Whatever had laid Hank and Guy low was spreading through the camp, the same symptoms whispered over Crowns and checkers: high fever, weakness in the legs, nasty rashes. Jim heard a rumor that someone had died of the same. He heard worse rumors, too, that the fever came back over and over, that the medicine the doctors gave was nothing but a laxative, and that nobody had even the first clue where it came from.

And whatever it was, it wasn't stopping. Jim was damn near thankful to get out of the camp, because half of the French contingent and nearly a quarter of the men whose names he knew were sent to infirmary with fever before the rest period was over and they were returned to the front line.

He regretted thinking even for a moment that facing the guns was any better than the plague. It was only worse now that the days were shorter and the nights were colder. Jim's fingers cracked from the cold and bled when he closed his fingers around his rifle. Rations were worse than ever; they couldn't keep a fire lit in their mess, the cold blowing out any spark, the freezing rain drowning the lunch boxes sent from the support lines. When they did get a fire going, they tried to cook soup, but it tasted of stagnant water, and when they cooked bacon, the whole trench smelled like dead men. Worse, they were still stuck in place, and Jim ached for something, anything to happen, to change. The aching boredom of staring down the guns that faced them and hoping they'd fire just so something might happen, crossed with the nightmares of the planes overhead and the distant rumbling of tanks, left a terrible taste in his mouth, worse than the rancid bacon, and it was only made worse by the knowledge that he faced them alone.

Jim tried to stick close to Simon. He was the only one making any effort for the last three Frenchmen stuck with their sorry little crew, because it seemed none of them spoke a word of English. Jim tried to ask the new fellows who'd joined if they spoke French, even a regiment of Americans posted nearby, but no luck. However, Simon made an effort to understand, and Jim was able to communicate basic instructions to him with lots of pointing and repeating what few words they had in common. He wished he'd listened to Hank at all, picked up any words he could use to make what he wanted come out right. Instead, he had to motion broadly and cross his fingers it came across:

"You, all. Corporal says to watch the fifth section of the row." Jim held up five fingers so all three of the Frenchmen could see, Simon and the other two who seemed not to be listening to him, then pointed at the little flags that marked off the trench. "From that flag there, to that flag there." Simon stared impassively at Jim for what felt like a long time, then simply said:

_ "Quoi?" _

Jim had figured out what that word meant, and ground his teeth together. "You're being bloody daft on purpose! I said-"

_"Il a dit que nous devions surveiller l'endroit qu'il a indiqué, entre le quatrième et le cinquième marqueurs, ou le caporal nous ferait fouetter."_ The two other French soldiers sneered and pulled faces at Jim, but trudged past him towards the correct area. Simon shrugged, stone-faced, and gestured with a lifted hand: 'Happy?' Jim sniffed, and narrowed his eyes at Simon.

"Now give my gun back." He pointed at the pistol on Simon's hip, then drew his own, showing Simon the "St. Etienne" label. "This's yours." In the tumult of everything, he'd nearly forgotten that it had happened, and when Simon took his own pistol out, Jim recognized it as the exact same model as the one Hank carried – Smith & Wesson. Jim moved to take it, but Simon snatched it back and put it away.

_"Je suis sûr que ma bite est plus grande que la vôtre aussi."_ Simon crossed his arms.

"No, that one was mine," Jim hissed, then threw a quick look over his shoulder. "Give it back!" Simon stared impassively as Jim shook the St. Etienne pistol at him again, and his only reply was:

_"Quoi?"_

"Arsehole, I-"

"Oi!" The corporal was down the row, shouting. "Shankhill, bloody hell, are you still trying to tell that idiot something? If he don't listen, shoot him and throw him over the top, Christ, it ain't like we're losin' nothin' of value!" Jim cringed, but whipped around to shout back.

"Just tryin' to teach him a lick of English, sir! This one's smarter'n he looks." When he turned back, it was to Simon's arched eyebrow.

_"Je pense que je vous ai compris, mais je ne sais pas si je devrais vous remercier ou vous donner un coup de pied dans les dents._ Arsehole." With that, Simon stalked off, and Jim tried to bite back what satisfaction he could that he'd taught Simon one more word.

But then, he was alone. The few fellows whose names he still knew were nowhere near him, and though he imagined the familiar, friendly sight of the dying sunlight reflecting across Hank's glasses, he knew he was only tormenting himself by pretending Hank might appear at the other end of the trench.

The days of boredom, of waiting for something to distract himself from the loneliness, were bad enough. The nights were worse.

He and some other fellows were sent to bed down in one of the alcoves, but when someone stuck a torch in, Jim could see a swarm of something beige skittering into the shadows. "The fuckin' chats!" That was Clark, who'd come back from his infestation shorn bald, and Jim and all the others, loath to have to scratch their scant sleeping hours away, all stomped futilely at the tiny bastards until they'd vanished into the crevasses in the dirt or the cracks in the trench's wood reinforcements.

"Golly," an American soldier huffed through an impenetrable drawl, "We got some candles, boys? These dang nits are gettin' worse by the day." A larger man next to him nodded stoic agreement.

At the American's guidance, the lot of them stripped to their skivvies and huddled for warmth, then passed around candles. Jim and the other smokers had lighters at the ready (though Jim kept the hard metal one Miss Collins had sent him in his hand rather than sharing), and the smaller of the Americans in the alcove directed them to run the candle wax along the seams of their clothes. "Ain't nothin' nobody's found what works better," he muttered, his flaxen hair gleaming in the dim light. His big friend, who was revealed as an Indian in the light, nodded to this too, as the smaller man added, "It's the warmth what draws 'em in, they're smart enough to know they can get an easy meal out of us. Ironic, really; they burned our clothes at camp when there were lice, since it was easier to just give us new duds than pick the lice out of the pockets."

One of the fellows piped up, "We were told they were getting boiled."

Someone else said, "I heard they were getting dipped in something that killed the fucking chats."

Jim added, "I heard steamed." He then cast an eye over the Red Indian, then to the scrawny, yellow-haired man he'd come with. "'Ey, he ain't gonna eat us, is he?"

"What, Ol' Georgie Red Hawk 'ere?" The man laughed hard, even as the candle he was holding singed his breast pocket. The Indian – Georgie? He looked annoyed at the name, but said nothing – "He ain't eaten no more man-flesh than any of y'all, 'less your rations're that bad y'all've resorted to cannibalism. An' here I thought the Teutons were the savages out here."

There was a chuckle shared all around. Even Jim felt a little better as he poured candle wax down the inner seam of his pants, and he actually saw some of the nasty little bugs crawl away.

They all chatted on into the night, lighting the candles' wicks over and over as they died. The American eventually introduced himself as Grouse, and he mentioned he'd only arrived recently.

"They don't tell us much back home, but if you listen good, you learn a bunch." Grouse was helping Hawk pick off the bottom of his pants – big guy, big clothes. Many of the others had given up, put their waxy clothes back on, and curled up to sleep, but Jim, the last of the Englishmen awake, huddled near Grouse and Hawk and burned singes into his helmet as he chased the nasty little chats to their deaths. "But if it ain't bad enough the rats chew on your boots and spread disease, the maggots crawl out of the grave an' if you're holed up with a dead body you hear the little bastards chewin' on the corpses all night-" Jim had to swallow hard, his stomach turning at the thought, but Grouse wound up and spat into the trench - "We got to itch like damn morons."

"Well, what choice do we got?" Jim shook his head. "We do what we can to keep it from spreadin', but it only goes so far."

"Load of horse puck, s'what I say," Grouse drawled impatiently. "I even heard a rumor that they're sayin' that nasty fever goin' around is bein' spread by the chats, but even if that's just talk, the scratchin'll drive a man to pieces. Wish we could just firebomb out the lines." Grouse tossed his head back with arrogance. "Just stomp the lot of 'em out. What the hell do insects like this do for us anyway?"

"Must be a reason," Red Hawk muttered, the first he'd spoken. "Everything in life has a purpose, from the hawk in the sky down to every last worm in the earth."

Jim shrugged, but the thought stuck. He felt much like a worm in the earth, huddled down in this dark cove and groping blindly through. "Does that help you, thinkin' that?"

Red Hawk shrugged, but Grouse, contemplative and even a little contrite, scooted a little closer to Jim in the tiny space. "I was in school," he confided. "I'd hoped to be a preacher. I was raised by a preacher, y'see, me an' Georgie both. We're taught everythin' happens for a reason, and his people think all things exist for a reason. I wish it were that simple." Grouse shook his head. "We ought'a just kill all them Huns like the nasty bugs, since they'd kill us if we didn't kill them first, but they exist for a reason, too, right?"

Jim wondered if maybe there was a reason Hank had gotten sick. He dashed the thought, but tried to make conversation with Red Hawk and Grouse until they all drifted off from exhaustion. Jim barely remembered to put his clothes back on, but even as he did, he found himself instinctively scratching his shoulders and arms as he drifted off.

The Americans were gone in the morning. Jim didn't know if he'd ever see Red Hawk or Grouse again, but damn did he hope they would live through.

The days dragged on, colder and colder, and November was creeping ever towards December. Jim marched the same lines day after day, struggled to communicate with Simon, ate cold, soggy sandwiches and foul soup, slept huddled with other smelly, scratching, unhappy men, and watched nothing happen for endless hours. Jim endured, knowing Hank was likely struggling along wherever he was, that he'd encourage Jim were he at his side or on speaking terms, and he would cheer Hank on just the same, and when he got back, he'd try to tell Hank as much. He just had to wait until he could return.

Except he knew he numbered more than four days.

That was the rule, wasn't it? Four days at the front, four days on support, four days of rest. They'd stayed a few days longer here and there, when the lines were cut off, when the Huns had pushed forward around them and they'd been surrounded or in a salient, but though Jim lost track of time some days out of boredom, Jim knew it had been a week.

Then, two. Snow began to fall as winter took hold, bitter cold, but it stopped the rats and lice not at all. They only seemed to flood the trenches more and more, thirsty for warmth and blood. Jim spent mindless hours on his elbows and knees, dragging barbed wire along the fences, stacking the sandbags, trying to keep the wood reinforcing the trenches from popping loose, all futile. There was always another snapped wire, the sandbags broke every day, the nails popped loose every night when the earth froze over again. He had grown used to the nightmares of falling bombs and shrapnel screaming towards him,

He hardly registered the third week as it dragged through. He no longer noticed how much his fingers ached from the cold, how foul he smelled, or how he itched. Burning the lice out with wax was the most fun he had, relishing the death of each of the putrid little beasties, but nothing else could give him any satisfaction. Not food, not the hollow conversation with the other fellows. Winning card games meant nothing when they were gambling on nothing of value. Every cold breeze reminded him: Hank suffers this too, and alone.

Poor Hank. What if the fevers did come back? What if every time he'd thought he'd made it through, he was just dragged back down into the sickness again? What if he never recovered? He knew nothing of sickness but what his brother had done for him when he'd had fever: wrapped him up tight in blankets and fed him soup, because Nan either couldn't afford or wouldn't send for a doctor for him, and waited. There was nobody there who'd take care of Hank, but then, even if he were there, he wouldn't know what to do. Even so, if he could just go back, see his face, be reassured he was still alive, Jim wouldn't have been so wracked with guilt he could hardly think, had he anything else to think about but the notion that there may be nothing left of Hank upon his return but his precious books, wrapped in his emptied clothes.

Jim had the sinking suspicion that the reason they weren't being sent to the support lines, or even to relief, was because there were no soldiers well enough to replace them. Men seemed to vanish daily. Clark was gone now, having collapsed with fever and pains, and some of the younger men that Jim didn't know by name yet had been dragged back to the support lines on tarpaulins, too weak to walk. Neither Corporal Bradley nor any of the NCOs said a blighting blue word about them, nor about the scant few men who did join them in the nights to fill the emptying ranks, all grey in pallor, all too quiet. It was as if they were just meant to ignore the plague.

Jim couldn't, it was whispered about in every conversation the Corporal couldn't hear, and he knew he wasn't the only one. He still saw Simon, though they could barely talk to one another, and Simon seemed as tense as he did. He paced, he smoked heavier than Jim had seen before. He often wore the same heavy look as he did when Jim had ushered him away from the infirmary tent before, like his very heart had been lashed to an anchor and thrown into a moonless sea. Jim tried to bear this in mind when he was made to give him and the one other remaining French soldier instructions.

(He didn't know what had happened to the third of them, be it a bullet or the fever, but he knew that even if he asked, he'd get no answer he could comprehend.)

He didn't know how else to explain but with visuals, and reached up to pat the sandbags lining the top of the trench row. "These. More. Need moved." He tried to make a motion like stacking bricks, as Simon raised an eyebrow, as Jim tried to motion carrying the bags from the rear to the front line. "Coming from support, need to put them up." Simon said nothing, so Jim motioned. "Tell him."

_"Je m'en fous."_ Simon scowled and lowered his face. The other French soldier groaned and kicked dirt at Simon's feet.

_ "Qu'a t'il dit?" _

"I don't know what you just said, mate, but it ain't what I said." Jim felt his spine tense, but tried to force his calm. "You got to go over the top to stack sandbags."

_"Pourquoi?"_ Simon spat at the ground. _"Qu'importe?"_

_"Idiot,"_ the other French soldier growled. _"Quoi, pensez-vous que si vous désobéirez aux ordres, vous serez renvoyé ŕ Guillaume?"_

"Guillaume," Jim repeated, because he'd caught that. "What's this to do with Guy? He ain't here, you got work to do!"

Simon stomped his foot. _"Je n'ai aucune raison de vous écouter. Renvoyez-moi dans les chaînes. Je m'en fous."_

_"Faites ce que vous voulez, mais vous me faites du mal avec vous!"_ The other French soldier throttled Simon by the shoulder, and Simon whipped around and made to hit him. Jim caught his arm.

"Stop! If they put you on the post again, you'll be shot! You won't see Guy anymore!" Simon's arm tensed in his grip; he'd understood that. "No more Guy. No more."

_"Connard. Que pensez-vous que vous pouvez faire?"_ Simon threw Jim off, but held still and glowered at the other soldier. _"Nous devons faire glisser des sacs de sable de l'arrière vers l'avant et les mettre en place. Ils espèrent que nous serons tués quand nous serons en haut."_

_"Morceau de merde."_ The other soldier spat on Simon's tunic and stormed off, and Simon gave Jim one last baleful look, smeared his top clean, and followed.

Jim had only half of a clue of what had just transpired. Only that Simon had only calmed down at Guy's name. Perhaps, for a moment, he had entertained the notion that getting himself clapped in irons was the fastest way back to him.

He could hardly blame him. Three weeks, not a sight of the one person that Simon could actually talk to. Not a single word from them, either. Jim knew the exact feeling, except his own pain was doused in guilt that he'd caused their rift in the first place.

A word.

That was an idea.

That night, huddled in the alcove, Jim waited restlessly for those nearest him to fall into sleep. It wasn't as if his rest was ever truly restful when the planes flew this close. Instead, he dug his stationery out and tipped his chest into the bright moonlight, and scrawled his message:

_"Dear Ms. Collins:_

_Sorry I did not write for a while. We have been busy."_

He cringed at his own shaky handwriting, and wondered if Hank's twin was as observant as he, if she would read Jim's trepidation in his carefully couched missive.

_"Your brother and I have been separated for a time and on different parts of the field. I miss him. He is a good partner and friend. I hope he's not too troubled by the cold. I think I would be doing better if he were at my side. I hope he has written to you too and that he is not as lonesome as I am."_

He swallowed hard, and tried to write of anything else.

_"Has it snowed yet at home? I would be a happy fellow to see my old sledding hill from when I was small. I will take you and Hank to all the best places in town you might not know of when we get home. I hope we can come home soon._

_Yours truly. Jim Shankhill."_

He slipped the message into an honor envelope and tucked it into his shirt, crossing his fingers the corporal didn't read it and destroy it. He only had a little stationery left.

He took one more piece out and contemplated it in the moonlight between patches of cloud cover that dimmed his sight. What was the protocol for sending a letter to someone in your own regiment, just at the back of the line rather than with you? He wrote their regiment name in, and began:

_"Hank:"_

Then stopped.

He wanted to write so much, but his clumsy hands and the narrow universe of his vocabulary stifled him. What could he possibly say? "I'm sorry I didn't talk to you." "I'm sorry I tried to pretend we weren't friends." "I'm sorry I didn't notice you getting sick. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you." How fucking sorry was he?

Then, he realized: if the corporal saw him writing to Hank, he'd read it. He was likely still watching them, the nasty, hawkish bastard.

Fuck it. Anything he had to say to Hank would be said to his face. If he had to say them standing over his grave, so be it. He stuffed the page back into his pocket and closed his arms tight around his chest and the envelope, and forced himself to sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly until the morning, still haunted by the thought of having to apologize to a patch of earth. Christ, if someone had to dig that hole, he hoped he could at least be the one to give Hank that last scrap of dignity.

He dropped his letter in the mailbag in the mess pit the next morning, and crawled through the softening tundra to replace barbed wire through the rest of the chilly day, nourished by the hope that Miss Kate might pass his message on to her brother.

That hope was wan by the next morning's light, but after the stand-to and another screaming rash of bulletfire exchanged over the dim dawn, he and the bulk of the regiment that had come to the front with him were lined up, the Corporal examining each of them in turn.

"What a sorry-looking lot you are," Bradley laughed bitterly, as if he weren't as bad off as the rest of them; befouled, poorly shaven, covered in the tell-tale marks of louse bites, and exhausted. "Our relief arrived this morning. We'll be moving to the support lines in daylight, so keep your wits about you, eh?"

Even from a bastard like Corporal Bradley, those words couldn't have been more welcome. Jim tried to smother the joy that had kindled in his heart, his excitement at seeing some relief, in hopes Bradley wouldn't notice just how happy he was. Then, someone yanked his sleeve, and Jim turned to see Simon, his eyes ringed black and his face looking especially thin, glaring at him.

_ "Qu'a t'il dit?" _

Jim quickly figured he wanted a translation, but even running the words through his head pushed a smile to his face. "Going back." He pointed West, indicating their destination. "Back lines. Then, after, camp. Guy. Hank."

Simon apparently understood that and nodded curtly, then left to translate for the other French soldier still there, and Jim kept trying not to smile about it, not to look so excited. Maybe the Corporal had forgotten his notion that Jim was a coward, or that there was anything wrong with Hank, but he couldn't risk being forced apart from him when he was so close to grasping at that last chance.

Hope so fragile could not survive the winter cold, and by the time they'd marched back to the support lines, Jim had already forgotten it and gotten sucked back into the argument he was having with himself over whether it would be worse if Hank were dead or if he were alive and unwilling to forgive him.

But he endured. He packed bullets and lunchboxes in bales of straw and he endured. He kept watch and he endured. The tension wound in him like a coil, and he, with no other choice but the charge of insubordination and a firing squad, endured.

The march back to the relief line was as silent as the grave. Jim felt like he knew less and less of the men around them, or that there were even fewer of them to know. In the moment, though, none of it mattered. Not the quiet indignity of being forced to strip at the edge of camp, as some of the service members came around with linen bags.

"Remove anything you want to keep from your pockets," one told him, and Jim dug out his stationery and his knife and put them with his boots, shivering with his bare heels freezing in the snow. He could scent the putrescent smoke of a bonfire built with rot, and knew for certain that one thing the American, Grouse, had said had been right in the end.

It didn't matter that he was forced to let someone else shower with him and check his hair, nor that the new uniform he was given fit him poorly and itched. It didn't matter. He'd finally gotten a chance to get back to Hank, he was going to grab it and hold on tight with whatever he had.

He searched through the entire camp, ignoring those who called his name or shouted after him, single-mindedly seeking any sign of Hank in the bleak December light. That shock of mahogany-brown hair, those green eyes, the glint of a dying sun off of oblong glasses, thin fingers against the page of a book. Pain ached and swelled in his breast as each direction he turned showed him nothing, no Hank, nowhere. He turned around and around, but Hank wasn't at the tents, not in the mess hall, not the kitchens. All he saw were blank faces as bleak as his, all dirty, all exhausted, but none of them met his eye and greeted him with smile he wanted – _needed_ – to see. Hank's absence was like a huge part of his heart had been torn from his breast, and he _needed it back_.

Was he too late?

He stormed towards the infirmary tent, each step towards those canvas doors more determined than the last. He would have his answers, he would see Hank again, he would keep his fucking promise, and he wound up to throw the tent open with the storm bellowing in his breast, and-

Someone caught his hand.

"Whoa now, mate." Corporal Bradley. Smirking at Jim's shoulder. Jim wouldn't turn around, wouldn't face him, but Bradley was dragging him back. "Y'can't go in there. There's sick fellas in there, y'know? You'll get sick too. Go get somethin' to eat, your rest days are gonna be gone before you know it."

"I'm just lookin' for someone," Jim replied, sharper than he meant to, not turning from the tent entrance.

"Come off it, ain't nothin' or nobody more important than taking care of yourself, eh?" Bradley laughed. Jim stiffened at his too-friendly touch, raising his shoulders and hunching his head down. This was futile, and he knew it.

"With all due respect, sir, I'd like to know if Hank Collins is alive."

"Collins?" Bradley repeated, his voice lilting as his mouth slid into a vicious smirk. "You still hung up on him? Christ, mate, and I thought he was the queer."

"He's a friend, sir, and the best one I've got. If he's alive, I want to speak with him. If he's dead, I want to pay my respects. Sir." He bit it off, still unable to bring himself to turn around. If he turned back now, he would be as good as throwing Hank away again, like Hank had thrown him away, _like he'd done in the first place,_ Christ, what sort of monster was he?

It was getting worse. His head was ready to split from the pressure built up in him. Only now was he realizing the true gravity of what he'd done, and remembering the pain of a child locked in a cellar for crying, wanting someone, anyone, to come for him, of being completely alone in the dark, and _he'd done that to Hank._

"Asking it as a favor, sir. I just want to talk to him." Jim balled his fists, and Bradley loosed a languid laugh.

"Come off it! Talkin' like that, you off your marbles? Come on." He seized Jim by the collar of his tunic. Jim dug his heels in.

"Just let me see him. Let me talk to him. He's my mate, and I-"

"Whingy one, aren't you? Jesus." Bradley forced Jim to turn about, and seized him by the chin. "Tell you what, queer boy –"

Something snapped in Jim. He lurched back, sucking in air as the fury cracked from his soul. His fist clenched, he wound up with a punch. Fuck him. Fuck it! He wouldn't let this stand!

His elbow was back. There was a shout: "IDIOT!" Simon had caught his fist and shoved him into a tent post, but Jim roared his fury and lunged for Simon's neck. He didn't care who he was killing anymore, fuck it, fuck it!

Before he knew it, there was a holler from somewhere and men were all around him, grabbing at his arms and legs, and he was thrashing senselessly and screaming. He lost sight of Simon in the thrall, but he was blinded in the fray, deafened by shouting, "Hold him still!" "He's gone mad!" "Let me through!" "Someone grab him!" Someone wrenched at his arms, someone was grabbing his shirt, his gun was torn from its holster, his shoulder twisted in its socket. He caught a glimpse of the Corporal howling with laughter outside of the brawl, and though he tried to pounce again, ready to kill him this time, something else cut through to Jim's senses:

"That's enough, James!"

Hank was in front of him, dark hair overgrown and askew, pale and thin but alive. Hank had hold of both of his wrists. Jim's tunic was in tatters, he was shivering, and looking into Hank's face made him still just long enough for the rest of the Tommies who'd come to subdue him to grapple onto him again. "No, stop!" Hank's voice held a surprising amount of command. "He's done. He won't fight back anymore." Hank's stare was severe, and Jim didn't dare disobey. "Isn't that right, James? Stop acting like a child. You're a man and a soldier, aren't you?" He hadn't let go of Jim's wrists, and he subtly tugged him. "Come on. Come with me."

Jim followed, but he knew he was flanked by the rest of the Tommies, like they were following a wild animal in chains. Hank was still whispering to him, and hadn't broken eye contact: "You wanted to see me? Is that all? Such a tantrum for so small a conceit. You can see me now. I'm alright."

A post came into sight at the back of the camp, hung with rope for tying the cavalry horses, but there were no horses there now. Jim was stricken by the thought that it was for soldiers. Hank tied his arms out like he was on a crucifix, threw the rope around his chest and looped it there, then let go and stepped back. "Stay there. Stay calm. You have to take your medicine."

"Well, ain't this a sight?" Jim cringed, and Hank's eyelids twitched under his glasses, as Corporal Bradley caught up with them. "Here I worried we'd have to shoot Shankhill as a coward. Turns out, he's got balls too big for his own good!" He laughed, but he was the only one. The Tommies shifted nervously in place, glancing from eye to eye. Bradley advanced, pushing past Hank, and smirked into Jim's face. "I ought'a have you shot for striking a commanding officer, 'cept you didn't touch me." He punched Jim's shoulder, too hard, and Jim couldn't even brace for it. "But since you did hit the frog, I suppose two weeks' F.P. and two weeks' no pay."

"Sir." Jim flinched at Hank's interruption. "With all due respect –" The utter contempt in Hank's pinched told Jim just how much respect Hank thought the corporal was due, but thank God that look wasn't directed at him right now – "This is against protocol. Mister Shankhill is due representation and a formal trial if you are to charge him."

Bradley whipped round and drew himself up in a vain attempt to intimidate Hank, but Hank stood steadfast, arms at his sides, even as the corporal spat, "Where do you get off, yammering about protocol?"

"Sir, I have been bedridden on and off with that returning pyrexia for the last several weeks. I have had time to read our protocol books in full, from cover to cover. I took the liberty of educating the other men who were evacuated to the field hospital with me of the same." Hank gestured to some of the other men. None were disagreeing, but none were speaking. "If you will not allow him proper representation, then I request you allow me to speak on his behalf."

Jim hung his head. He nearly wished he had the fortitude to tell Hank not to bother, how could he possibly deserve a defense, but that'd likely just make Hank even angrier. Don't be stupid, he told himself, just accept it. Hank apprised him for a moment, brushed a cool palm over his forehead, then said, "Consider the circumstances. He's feverish, exhausted, and I think you will agree he was provoked. In fact, I think the whole staff of the medical tent will agree he was provoked." Bradley swore under his breath, as Hank turned around to face him head on. "An unfair punishment will demoralize the men, sir, though he is in need of punishment. I humbly request you reconsider."

Bradley squinted, obviously weighted under the subtly angry eyes of all of the men around them – or was Jim just still so pissed he was imagining it? – but after an interminable moment, Bradley whipped a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and growled, "Three days F.P., for an hour at sunrise and sunset. Three days in barracks. I don't want to see his fucking face for three days, Collins, you hear me? Tie him tight." With that, Bradley turned about-face and stormed off, and after a few moments of peace, the rest of the Tommies began to disperse as well. Only Hank remained, standing stalwart at his side.

There they stood, Hank facing the middle distance with his arms crossed over his chest, Jim bound and keenly aware both of the cold that seeped in through his ruined shirt and his own heart pounding in his breast. After another long moment of silence, Hank heaved a weary sigh, but said nothing. Jim tried to look at his face, but couldn't stretch far enough. He, too, looked cold, and Jim finally couldn't take it anymore.

"Please, mate, get a coat or something." He sounded whiny to his own ears, and waited for Hank to scold him for it. Waited for Hank to scold him for still calling them friends. Instead, Hank sighed again.

"I'm fine. I promise. The fever hasn't come back for a week now, it's the longest I've gone and I'm all but certain it's not coming back." He turned, those green eyes settling on him; the brightest thing he'd seen in weeks. "Why did you push me away before?"

Jim broke eye contact, hanging his head. "I didn't want you to get punished for what I'd done wrong. The corporal thought me a coward, and you... you, somethin' worse. I thought the only way to protect you was to break us apart." He bit his lip, then whispered, "I didn't desert you, mate, I was always watchin' for you. I..." He struggled, mouth working but the words dying before they could coalesce, "I...!"

"Jim." Hank turned and faced him, then put a hand up on the post next to his. "I know. I just needed to hear it from your lips."

Jim's heart melted with relief. "Did your Katie pass it on?"

"No. Ah, well, she did, but before that, Guillaume did." Hank beamed, and Jim's jaw fell. "Yes, I think you even told him, 'who are you going to tell?' He told me your intention approximately thirty seconds after you told him."

Jim stammered for a moment, bewildered. "Then you-"

"Played along. Ah, to an extent." Hank lowered his eyes, his smile sagging. "I was angry that you chose to address the issue without speaking to me about it, so, yes, I was cross with you for a time. I thought to try to make our rift appear deep in hopes that it would distract the Corporal's undue attention. My becoming ill was entirely out of my hands, unfortunately." He ran his palm down to Jim's chest, over his heart. "I'm tremendously sorry you were left alone that long. I had hoped we could resolve our 'feud' long before now."

Jim tried to twist away from Hank's touch, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it all, nearly ready to knock Hank's head off. "Come off it, you would really- You actually-!"

"Jim." Hank lowered his hand away, smiling again. "Neither of us have done anything wrong, whether or not the Corporal wishes to believe us. We can have our friendship, even one as close as ours. We're not merely toy soldiers, lined up to do nothing more than point our rifles and shoot. We're human. You and I both. We have human needs, and I fear that given our friendship, those needs include one another." His smile was so bright, so warm, it was disarming. "If it will reassure you..." Hank paused, mouth open just a little, and he seemed to correct, "If I may make a promise in return to your promise to protect me, then it is this: I will stay with you 'til the end."

Gratitude swelled through Jim, accompanied by a whole host of other emotions he could hardly name. It felt like too much. Chuffed dumb, unable to speak, he could only laugh under his breath and shake his head. "Damn, you know how to make a man smile."

"Ahaha!" Fuck, Jim had missed that laugh! "I do, yes. Here." Hank reached into Jim's breast pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, then lit a smoke and passed it to him. "Relax. Three days won't be so long."

"Yeah?" Jim managed to hold the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and exhaled the smoke through his nose. Simon had made it look easy. "I damn say I hope not. Couldn't'a negotiated the Corporal down a little more?"

Hank laughed again, just as brightly, then lit up another cigarette. "You did punch Simon. I'm certain you've been tempted to it before, but doing so is very much against regulation." To Jim's surprise, Hank put the cigarette to his own lips.

Something struck a funny chord in Jim at seeing Hank's nimble mouth close around the butt, but before he could say anything, there was a shout from nearby.

"Jim! Hank!" That was Guy! Jim tried to turn and look for him, but Hank had tied his hands and trunk exceptionally tight. No matter, because Guy rushed into view, looking a little more thin but otherwise no worse for the wear, and he hugged Jim around the chest. "You have returned!"

"Seems like you're back to yourself too, mate!" Jim laughed a little, wishing he could ruffle the kid's hair. "Glad to see you've picked a language and stuck to it, I've gotten tired of tryin' to talk to your Simon."

"Ah, well, Simon said you, er, did your best! He was, ah, happy you tried!" He beamed, but just as Jim was about to call him a liar, Simon appeared behind him. Instead of going to taunt Jim, he held a hand out to Hank.

"Cigarette."

"Si vous plait," Hank said in the sing-song tone of a teacher, but held a cigarette out anyway. Simon rolled his eyes and lit up, and Jim felt a pang of guilt when Simon turned his head and Jim spotted the bruise on his neck where he'd hit the tent.

"Can one of you tell him I'm sorry?"

Simon seemed to hear him, quickly muttering, _"S'il s'excuse, dites-lui qu'il frappe comme une femme et je n'ai rien ressenti."_

"He said it didn't hurt," Guillaume and Hank said in near unison.

Jim would have called them liars, but the sense of relief he got at having a cigarette in his mouth and his strange group of friends at his side, even hung from the post, tempered him from even a minor annoyance. He could even laugh, as the four of them stood there, together, watching the sun set over the distant Western horizon.

* * *

Corporal Bradley fell ill before they were returned to the front with the same fever that had ravaged the rest. Jim never saw him again, only heard through Hank, who'd been assisting in the medical tent as he recuperated, that the fever spiked through to his heart and claimed his life before he could even be taken to a field hospital. Jim sometimes wondered if Hank intentionally neglected him to ensure he wouldn't recover. He decided never to ask. Bradley was quickly replaced without a word to the men, and though Jim never learned the new regiment corporal's name, he never looked twice at Jim, either, and that was fine enough.

He had enough trouble out here without that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trench Fever: Trench fever was spread by lice, or specifically, by a bacteria carried by lice. It was formally recognized in 1920, long after the war for which it was named. Symptoms included pain in the shins and legs (hence one colloquial name, "shinbone fever"), a rash, high fever, and physical weakness. The incubation period is about two weeks after infection, which was why Hank was showing symptoms for several days before the fever struck. As was described in the chapter, the fever, a five-day fever, can come back several times over the course of weeks, and recovery can take a month or more. Most soldiers diagnosed with this "P.U.O." or "pyrexia of unknown origin" would be prescribed Medicine No. 9 - which was actually just a laxative! - and duty, meaning they had to continue to serve despite the sickness. Men who were too sick to serve were evacuated to a field hospital, and men who could not recover were discharged and sent home. Famed victims include J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, who both ended up being discharged after becoming too ill to serve. The disease was rarely deadly, however, the fever could cause heart complications, and even after recuperation, trench fever can have after-effects of heart palpitations, fatigue, anxiety, depression, and long term muscle pain, amongst others.
> 
> Chatting: Lice were called "chats" by the British soldiers, and when stuck at the front for long periods, unable to wash or change their clothes, lice infestations had to be dealt with one way or another. The soldiers may not have known that the lice were spreading disease, but nobody wanted to be itchy, and the description of seeing clouds of lice pouring out of sleeping alcoves was not an exaggeration - in fact, all my descriptions of the horrors in the trenches (the rats, the maggots, the corpse-scented bacon) came from first-hand accounts and the journals of officers. Pouring hot candle wax down the seams of clothes, where lice might hide, was one way to deal with the lice, and men would often sit around, picking the lice from their clothes, and talking. This is where we got the modern phrase "chat," meaning to talk, especially communally. Remember that the next time you get invited to a Discord chatroom, kids!
> 
> Crime & punishment: I realized I never explained Field Punishment! Field Punishment, or F.P., Number One was a common punishment for small misbehaviors. A soldier would be bound to a post for an hour in the morning and an hour at night. Field Punishment Number Two was being bound to something that could be moved, so his punishment could be continued while the army moved. However, other punishments existed, including being docked pay, being confined to barracks, or even being sent for penal servitude. Acts of cowardice, of desertion, or striking a superior officer were punishable by death. A soldier who committed a heavier crime is due a trial based on protocol, but in practice, as I mentioned last chapter, this protocol was often ignored, and a soldier's superior officer would often conduct the trial as judge and jury.
> 
> Next time, things will be just a little lighter. Let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> Conscription began in Great Britain in March 1916. All single men between the ages of 18 and 41 were liable to be called to join. In June 1916, married men became eligible. In 1918, the maximum age for conscription was raised to 51.
> 
> In France, military service was mandatory for most men for a period of three years, with very limited exceptions, in what could be interpreted as saber-rattling against the Kaiser's army. When war was declared, men who had completed their mandatory service were gradually called back, including men up through age 45.
> 
> "We are all each our own Devil, etc." – From the lesser known Wilde play "Duchess of Padua." Green roses were also a secret symbol of Wilde and his enthusiasts.
> 
> Kitchener's Blues – Because the khaki dye originally used to make British service dress Royal Army uniforms was a German product, and alternative products were difficult to come by, a highly-simplified version of the service dress uniform was produced for use in basic training, dyed blue instead. They were named Kitchener's Blues after the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, who had led the charge on a massive recruitment drive in late 1914, which made keeping up with the demand for new uniforms impossible in the first place.
> 
> The title of the story is a reference back to the song which initially inspired the story, "The Soldiering Life," by The Decemberists. As such, I have made several references to the band itself. For starters: Henry is the name of the lead singer's older son, and he is called Hank for short. Colin Meloy, lead singer and song writer, is referenced by Collins. Shankhill is a reference to a song title, "Shankhill Butchers." I'm sure I'll make a few more references somewhere along the line, and mention them as appropriate.
> 
> French translations:
> 
> Merde - "Shit."
> 
> Le Ciel et Terre - "Heaven and Earth"
> 
> Je m'excuse - "I'm sorry."
> 
> Le Armee du Terre - The Land Army, or the ground forces.
> 
> "il est de mon devoir de vous informer" = "It is my duty to inform you"
> 
> If I've missed anything significant, please let me know!
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


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